Sympathy for Yes as a group had already dwindled by the release of Talk. The constant infighting, ever-changing line-up and lack of instrumental innovation since Fragile makes Talk a slog. It was released on a label that was bankrupt by the time of release, was received dreadfully, and two band members left after the album was finished. It’s classic Yes trouble. A band’s ongoing animosity would never produce a moment of interest beyond gossip fodder. Talk is a clear enough example of that. Jon Anderson writes Yes material for the first time. You can tell. Armed with an acoustic guitar and two boomboxes, the band tries to continue on as a progressive-rock group with a cooler image. That is presumably a reason for their new logo, which looks as though the artist got distracted halfway through writing each letter. Probably the boomboxes keeping them on edge. Prepare for mid-1990s Yes, then, with an album so bad it’s easy to forget you’re listening to it.
The Calling is horrendous. A song which sets the mood for the album with as little grace and experimentation as is to be expected for a progressive rock band twenty years on from their peak. Yes has, for thirty years, continued seemingly just to spite its members. This is made clear by the first song of the album, a weightless, messy occasion which hears a constant dissonance between each band member. Echoed vocal work from Anderson, an always at-odds percussion and guitar pairing, it’s some of the worst music Yes has provided. That’s an astonishing achievement in of itself given the band’s run up to this point. I Am Waiting is, somehow, worse. The glazed-over, charity pop single style of songwriting is what Yes gives their long-suffering audience here. A thudding, hard rock-like song with Real Love appears, and it’s the most interesting thing Yes has done to date. Primal lyrics, intense instrumentals, there is life in the old dog yet.
Yes maintains this hope through State of Play. High-pitched vocals with a stream of consciousness at the core of it is what the band offers. A band in a perpetual state of turmoil will chance upon quality work accidentally. It happens briefly on Talk, but it soon sinks into repellent-sounding noise. Of the times instrumental work which was dead on arrival, dated at the time of creation. Noise which truly struggles to show where, or what, Yes can offer in the ‘90s. Far greater than the preceding albums and much of their ‘80s output, but the band could have hit one another with their instruments and it’d sound better. Quite a lot of Talk is based in noodling, in this idea that progressive rock has always got to be exaggerated and staggered. That could not be further from the truth.
But the band are clearly delighted with the timing signatures, the digital-only production. It’s what makes it a detail-laden thrill for those who appreciate both the sound and the experiences in making it. A layman, a passing listener who wants to hear the latest from the Roundabout hitmakers, would hardly care. Even those who do would struggle to defend. All this knowledge and little of it put to use. Talk ends on an inevitably elongated track, Endless Dream. Lengthy instrumentals and that stream of consciousness which informs Anderson’s writing is a constant of Yes, irrespective of the writer. They were never all that great at it, and yet persisted. Talented readers of music, utterly lost throughout Talk. That sole song of interest feels accidental. Monkeys at typewriters and all.
