Close to the Edge

As a white American male aged 30, I have a certain closeted affinity for the band Yes. Waiting for my wife to get home from work this Friday night, I opened a beer and threw on "Close to the Edge" for the umpteenth time, marveling at the minor thrill I get when musicians strive to make music sound more complicated than it ever needs to be. This thrill comes at a cost, of course: just like every other time I listen to "Close to the Edge," I completely zoned out after about 9 minutes—at the beginning of "I Get Up I Get Down," I think.

In his capsule review for Tales from Topographic Oceans, Christgau writes, "the whole is definitely less than the sum of its parts, and some of the parts are pretty negligible." He could just as well be reviewing "Close to the Edge," and yet I get a very strong and particular thrill from this song and album that I don't get from, say, something by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Skeptics damn their virtuosity, but virtuosity doesn't tarnish The Inner Mounting Flame or Countdown to Ecstasy, and it doesn't usually tarnish Yes. And if their pomposity lacks taste or cool, at least its good-natured. So I love the thrill I get from Yes, even if it only lasts for half of a (20-minute) song (or less), and subjects me to some god-awful lyrics.

Speaking of god-awful, I urge fans to read the behind-the-scenes comments about Yes over at Wikipedia. Under the sub-heading "Incredibly Pretentious and Awful," fans discuss how to handle Yes's wealth of negative criticism. Fans dismiss the need for it, but bigger fans should want to include it. If you love them, a little bad press (and historical truth) can't hurt you, and more discussion is always far better than less. Yes is one of those great bands that made some terrible music. It's okay to embrace the truth.