Yes – Drama Review

The machine whirrs on, somehow, as members join and leave the Yes machine once more. Trevor Horn is the big difference for Drama, an album which sees both Rick Wakeman and Jon Anderson leave the group. Bringing in one half of The Buggles to replace a great pianist and the long-standing lyricist is a bold move. For dedicated fans, it will be an act of blasphemy, and a religious fervour will come over those prog-rock listeners of old. For those passing through the discography, however, Drama marks one of the band’s more interesting releases. They stormed into the 1980s, shedding themselves of the drama which pulled apart their previous album, Tormato. Ditching Wakeman and Anderson opens the band up to their first musically interesting moment since Fragile. This is a statement of intent from the remaining members, who no doubt were wondering whether they could or even should continue after losing two defining Yes musicians. They were right to carry on, and better than that, they improved massively on what preceded Drama.  

Machine Messiah is that statement. Yes can do without Wakeman’s caped piano cruelty and Anderson’s whining vocals. They survive without both, however briefly. Closer to rock opera than progressive rock, Drama becomes a light nod to The Dark Side of the Moon and never quite hides that tone. It may be five years removed from the Pink Floyd classic, but it’s never ashamed of its influence. That makes all the difference for Machine Messiah, a frankly bold piece of work which has Yes exploring some new instrumental flourishes. Guitar music is in for the band and brings what may be one of their last great songs to life. It’s an instrumental highlight from the band, whose best period was at this point behind them. Horn brings out that liveliness once more. Gone are the sloppy, surrealist scribbles and in comes a little more heart and looseness. White Car works as a nice middle ground between pop and prog. A brief transition into the latter genre styling.  

Genuinely tremendous work can be heard on Does It Really Happen?, a song which has no right to be as groovy as it is. Horn is the difference-maker, that much is clear. Punchy, unpredictable work from a band who needed a massive shake-up to bring about any change. They aren’t overhauling the lyrics, that much is clear from Into the Lens and its camera anthropomorphism horrors. Still, it’s a massive change of tempo and tone for a band whose ‘70s output is largely bereft of quality. Much of Yes’ work depends on how far you can be dragged along their whimsy-laced output. Their lightness is a defining part of their sound and would soon turn grating. Eight minutes of camera antics is enough to put some to the test, though some exceptional guitar work and a rare moment where the message is not overpowered by prog-rock charms.  

Such is the case for Tempus Fugit also. For those who were rapidly falling out of love with Yes, Drama may just revive your interest in the band. What follows this release is disastrous, and the back-and-forth which comes from members leaving, joining, and leaving again, is a fascinating trouble that the band still contends with today. But take a trip back to Drama, where the worst songs are still listenable and the best are forward-thinking experiments on how progressive rock can survive the decade of synth. Yes would give in to the tone of the times and crush any hopes of continuing as a quality, counterculture offering, but for a moment on Drama, that hope existed. An essential part of their discography but, even then, not without its problems. Tempus Fugit is a tremendous album ender, though, and had the band picked up that sound and run with it in their later years, they’d have cemented themselves as all-time greats.