UNION

In my teenage years, I delighted insatiably to those exotic and highly varied musical delicacies that were 'The Yes Album', 'Fragile', 'Close to the Edge', 'Tales from Topographic Oceans', 'Relayer' and even 'Going for the One'. Although much maligned for its pretentiousness and self-indugence, for me, personally, Yes music always had a unique power to entice and enthrall, to excite and warm the heart --even to move me to tears-- because of its originality, drive, spaciousness, brilliant colours, tenderness, fragility and spirituality. Over three decades have passed, yet I can still listen to those great '70s albums with love, respect and awe.

It is therefore depressing to realise that my former heroes, Anderson, Squire, Bruford, Howe & Wakeman -- all unbelievably talented and imaginative musicians, capable of producing works of the highest possible calibre -- were involved in creating such a bland and uninspiring offering as 'Union'. What had happened to their musical sensitivities and their musical tastes during the intervening 1980s, one wonders? Did they just run out of ideas? Or did they suffer from profound mental fatigue? Or was some catastrophic brain trauma to blame? Or, more likely, was this appalling loss of creativity driven by that deadly lowest common denominator: a commercially driven yet ultimately misguided desire to appeal to 'popular' tastes and get airplay?

There is nothing progressive here; on the contrary, I would describe all the tracks on 'Union', without exception, as utterly regressive. Gone is the dynamic inventiveness of classic Yes in the 1970s, the magical interweaving of melody lines, the originality of the riffs, the sudden and surprising transitions, the unusual meters, the tasteful use of dynamics, the wonderful arrangements, the poetic lyrics, the use of vocals as extra instruments, the point and counterpoint, the panoramic sense of space, the fantastic build-up and release of tension, the joy of musicians using their sixth senses to form a collaborative whole that is far greater than its component parts. Instead, all that is left is over-produced, over-the-top, bland, unmoving 'product' (and I use that word, of course, in its most negative connotation -- as a swear word). There is not even the occasional moment of musical softness to sooth the battered and abused senses of the poor listener. It's unremittingly tragic.

No wonder Wakeman called this album 'Onion', because it brought tears to his eyes. It has a far worse effect on me, it makes me reach for the nearest bucket!