I was 14 when it happened. It was February 1971. I shared a bedroom with Kev, my older brother, who is 2 years older than me. The room was small, cramped even, with 2 single beds, a desk and a wardrobe in it. The space between the beds was less than 6 feet wide, and between the desk at the head of the beds and the wardrobe at the end of them, less than 8 feet. On the desk was a record player and speakers. On a shelf above Kev’s bed was a big old valve radio that Dad had brought home from EMI Electronics, where he worked. It was very powerful and would become so important to me over the next few years, as I listened to American Forces Network, broadcasting to U.S troops in Europe. It nourished my love of baseball, listening to live games from exotic places like San Francisco, Los Angeles and my beloved Boston. They also broadcast music programmes, especially in the evening. It was on this beautiful burgundy and cream contraption that I first heard CSNY, Santana and The Grateful Dead and, later on, an amazing single called I Saw The Light by someone called Todd Rundgren. I still remember the hairs on my arms standing up during that song, prompting a life-long devotion to Todd that persists to this day.
The music on the record player was all Kev’s. His love of British Blues meant that my sponge-like brain was full of Peter Green, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page and Albert Lee. In fact, Kev had a poster of Greeny above his bed, a huge thing which had the bearded genius playing that gorgeous Gibson Gold Top that he gave to Gary Moore. Peter Green looked down on me, every night, as I went to bed. As 1970 careered towards ’71, Kev’s record collection had albums by Genesis, Pink Floyd and King Crimson added to the Zep, Mac and TYA staples. His tastes were growing wider. Then, as I said, it happened.
I came home from school on a cold, February day. I probably slung my bag down in the hallway and went into the kitchen. Mum probably made me a cuppa and asked me about my day. I probably sat at the kitchen table as my younger brothers, Phil and Martin, did their homework. In the front room, my little sister, Clare, was probably playing with baby Dermot. It was probably a normal school-day in our busy, Anglo Irish household. I probably dragged my bag upstairs and threw it onto the bed, rummaging inside for my homework. I probably sat at the desk, gazing out of the window at the darkening skies, the street lamp at the end of the drive, the tree in the front garden and the houses across the road. I probably saw Kev walk into the driveway, with something under his arm. I probably heard him running up the stairs, two at a time, turning left on the landing, and bursting through our bedroom door. I say ‘probably’ to all this because, it was over 45 years ago, and I don’t remember. However, what happened next, I remember like it was yesterday.
The cover was green and black. It was upside down on Kev’s bed so I couldn’t see clearly, but I could make out heads – 6 of them. Down the sides were white squares, like a photograph negative. Kev had the record itself in his hands, the edges balanced between the fingers of both hands. He was inspecting the vinyl, tilting it under the lamp that I had turned on to do my homework. Then, he placed it carefully onto the turntable. I could see from where I was sitting, on my bed, that the label in the middle was the same green, orange and white of the Led Zeppelin albums. Atlantic. Kev lowered the needle onto the vinyl.
The sound was stabs of guitar, bass and drums. An organ joined in, the drummer hit the beat and a frantic rhythm began, punctuated by beautiful guitar. But what hit me the most, what made the hairs on my arms stand up, what made me stare at Peter Green while I concentrated, was the growling bass guitar. The spitting, flaring, chuckling bass guitar. The whooping, soaring, roaring bass guitar. And my life was changed forever. Within weeks, a poster of Chris Squire faced Peter Green. Within weeks, Bill Bruford was my hero. Within weeks, Steve Howe had become everything I wanted in a guitar player. Yes were my favourite band. Chris Squire was my favourite musician. Your Is No Disgrace was my favourite song.
As I write this, in ten minutes time, Chris Squire will be cremated. I am going to sit in my garden, in the hot, dark night, put my headphones on, and listen to that roaring, soaring bass once more. And remember that day. And thank the Lord that it happened.
After reading that, I finally think I might try a bit of Yes after all these years.
That’s quite beautiful. My big bruv was instrumental in my musical education too, and I recognise that bedroom as so like the one we shared. But I could never have expressed my recollections as well as that. Thanks Niall.
Beautiful recollection. I “found” The Yes Album via a BBC series called Sounding Out in 1971, which featured Yes one week, and Yours Is No Disgrace was one of the live clips shown. I couldn’t afford the album (I was 14 too), but happily a school friend’s older brother had it, so we huddled round the stereogram and marvelled at it as often as we could. And Chris Squire’s bass was the marvel of marvels. So sad the man who created that funky thunder is no longer amongst us.
That TV performance is still so exciting, Paul. I watch it often.
Brilliantly written, as always.
Great piece of writing, Niall. Inspired by your passion, and thinking it was time I reassessed 40-odd years of antipathy brought on by seeing them too often when I didn’t want to (including supporting both Janis Joplin and Cream’s Farewell at the Albert Hall, FFS), I’ve been giving them a bit of a listen.
And the verdict is…sorry, no. Still nothing. Still irritating. Not that this will matter you, I’m sure.
That’s a lovely little vignette Niall. My first listen was in my mate’s front room, where Steve kept his little stereo system.
There was a cabal of us proggers in the sixth form. Chris J had a copy of In The Court Of The Crimson King, Chris H had the Floyd canon, Allen had several Moodies albums, Graham championed Birds Of Fire, and my contribution was Caravanserai. We used to gather in each others houses to play Risk, eat crisps and guzzle lemonade provided by our respective parents, and while we did so we’d blow the cobwebs away with loud music.
At Steve’s house that day, a new LP was unveiled, from the sleeve you’ve described in the OP, and we all became Yes fans too.
Great piece again niall. 2 points though:-
1) TYA? Who dem den? (I may be having a senior moment but nothing’s coming to me!)
2) Baseball on the radio?? I’d rather listen to the Mahavishnu Orchestra 🙂
TYA? Ten Years After, @welshbenny
Silly me, course it is.
Didn’t have that album until 2 years later when I started my first job. They were a big part of my life for around 4 years after that but lost interest when Topographic came out and the accompanying tour all but killed off my love of them. Now though those first 3 albums were brilliant and I can listen to them again.]
Great writing as ever.
I know what you mean, @stevet. I’m so glad I saw them last year, playing The Yes Album and Close To The Edge. I still cannot work out why I never saw them in the 70’s. I went to hundreds of gigs, but I don’t think they ever came to my town, and we just didn’t travel to gigs in those days. Now, I don’t flinch at travelling 200 miles for a gig!
Just checked (ain’t the internet wonderful?) Yes played 2 nights at Guildford Civic Hall just weeks after the events above. Before my gig-going debut, unfortunately. My first gig was Mott The Hoople, October ’71. However, it’s amazing to see (a) how hard Yes worked in the USA in 71 & 72 and, (b) how quickly they went from pub gigs in London (Feb 71) to 2 nights at The Rainbow (Jan 72, when the Sounding Out film above was recorded). The amount of gigs, especially in the States, in between, is mind blowing.
Lovely post, Niall.
We’re the same age, it appears 🙂
Yes album, Fragile and Close to the Edge were my vital 3, it all becoming too widdly and then too trite for me. As then an ELPophile, Yes were always the opposition, so it wasn’t until about 2003, maybe, that I finally saw them, the so called classic line-up with Wakeman called back into active service, alongside Anderson, Howe, Squire and whoever was drumming (?White)
It was great.
I was probably wrong to go back to my tent early at Reading 1976, something I rue to this day. Missed Hawkwind a day or so earlier too, as was intent on impressing the comely redhead there with someone I knew. I failed.
Not a Yes fan at all, thus far, but I have been listening to Close to the Edge all week. And you know what? It’s actually growing on me. But here’s the thing: I picked up The Yes Album, Fragile and Close to the Edge a while back. They are the 2003 remasters with bonus tracks. I really don’t like the sound at all. Nothing to do with the band. It’s just the CDs sound shrill, brittle and harsh, especally the organ and lead guitar. Had the compression wars already begun by 2003? Anyway, the poor sound on these releases is one of the reasons I haven’t given them much attention. But I’m thinking now about getting the original CD versions from the 90s. Just wondering what the consensus was among the Yes cognescenti on this. I know there’s some new Steven Wilson mixes out, but I’d be happy with a simple version that sounds good.
Originl CD versions? Pah, vinyl, mate, vinyl 😉
Was a fan back in the 70s, disowned them during the punk purges, sneakily started listening again in the 90s and finally saw Yes in 2004, Oxford New Theatre. It was the classic Anderson/Howe/Squire/Wakeman/White lineup. The show was compered by Bob Harris. The support was Roger de Courcy & Nookie Bear, plus Jim Davidson. If it wasn’t possible to confirm these things online I’m fairly sure this would just feel like a weird too-much-cheese-at-bedtime dream by now.
RIP Chris Squire in any case.