Rolling Stone, January 30, 1974
JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF THE STAGE
By Cameron Crowe

[part ONE of four]

"Have you heard the gag about the ten-year-old twin brothers, Peter and Paul?"  
A Howard Johnson's coffee shop full of ditchers from a nearby Pittsburgh high 
school casually eavesdrops on Rick Wakeman's lunch-time tales.  "Well, they're 
the filthiest pair of kids you'd ever want to meet.  I mean, it wasn't, 'Tuck me 
into bed, please mum?'  It was, 'Fix the goddamn covers, bitch.' "  Rick bends 
to take a loud slurp from a soup spoon, his blond waterfall of hair a curtain across 
his face.  "So anyway, one night their parents decide the only way to clean up 
Peter and Paul's language is to beat the crap out of the next one that swears.

"Sure enough, the next morning at breakfast, the mother asks Peter what he'd 
like to eat.  'I'll have some fucking corn flakes,' Peter growls.  So the father 
immediately jumps up and begins to sock, stab, maim and ax the kid until he's 
just a pulpy mess lying in a pool of blood.  Really gross.  Dad sits back down and 
asks Paul what  he'd  like to eat.  Paul just shrugs and says, 'Well, I'd be a cunt 
if I asked for the cornflakes.' "  The entire coffee shop explodes in guffaws.  
Wakeman, always the class clown, leans back in his seat, basking in the laughter.  
He loves it.

The lunch is a quick take of Wakeman, who at 25 seems to be at the front edge 
of a cresting wave of interest in a classically informed, jazz-inclined, rock-based 
hybrid music that encompasses John McLaughlin, Herbie Hancock, Yes, Pink Floyd, 
Emerson, Lake & Palmer and European groups like Magma, Tasavallan Presidentti 
and Tangerine Dream.  Wakeman skates the classical perimeter like a caricature 
surfer, tall, lean and blond, loose and witty enough to cover the high-mindedness 
of it all in a mask of infectious humor.

It's been six months since he bailed out of Yes, surely one of the world's most 
prosperous bands, on the eve of a multimillion-dollar summer tour.  There's been 
no time for regrets.  With a two-album catalog of solo works to peddle, he 
promptly took off on a 20-stop tour of North America's largest halls and arenas.  
Despite sizable crowds, the month-long journey lost a substantial amount of money.  
Credit that to a payroll listing a 118-person entourage, a rented Lockheed Electra 
and the expensive David Measham and his National Philharmonic Orchestra and 
Choir of America.  "It's not really a bloodbath," insists Yes/Wakeman manager 
Brian Lane, "just a light shower."  One rock manager computes that it must have 
been a six-figure shower, but for Wakeman that's light.  He invested $50,000 in 
the album production of Journey to the Centre of the Earth with the attitude, 
"It wasn't wasted, it was invested."  Journey  is approaching platinum status, 
its predecessor, The Six Wives of Henry VIII, is near gold, and the skyrocketing 
record sales are expected to more than recoup the tour expenses.  More important, 
one senses, the roadwork provided Wakeman with an invaluable moral boost, 
confirming his decision to leave Yes.

Much of the solo tour's venues were ones he visited last spring as a part of Yes.  
"It's no use to play the small halls for the sole sake of selling them out," he assures 
himself while walking to an afternoon soundcheck at the UFO-shaped Pittsburgh 
Arena.  "That's just wanking off.  It's better to delay the gratification and play 
for a three-quarter house.  That was always the Yes strategy.  Our plan for 
American success was extremely well calculated..."  A moment later, the afterthought:  
"To a point."

That point, Rick is quick to say, was the Tales from Topographic Oceans album and 
its subsequent tour.  Based on Paramahansa Yogananda's Shastric scriptures, 
the esoteric double album made little sense to fans weaned on "Roundabout," 
from the group's 1972 album, Fragile.  "To play music," Wakeman says, "you 
have to understand it.  I didn't understand Topographic Oceans.  That's why 
I hardly played on it.  It frustrated me to no end...and playing the whole thing 
on tour, I got farther and farther away from it.  Deep down inside, I don't think 
I was the only member of the band frustrated on that tour.

"You see, a piece of music, just because it was written three or four years ago, 
shouldn't die.  Gone are the days when you hear a record for two months and 
then it just disappears.  People are writing pieces of music to last.  One of my 
all-time favorite songs - not just because I played on it - is 'Heart of the Sunrise' 
[from Fragile].  Incredible tune.  'Long Distance Runaround.' ...'I've Seen All 
Good People' ...They're great songs.  So why not play them?  I feel very sorry 
for anyone who saw us for the first time last tour.  All they got was Topographic 
Oceans shoveled down their throats.  I had to give my notice on that tour.

"It was blatantly obvious that Yes was headed more and more in that direction.  
I figured if I stayed it would be a series of rows that would produce nothing but 
grief for all parties.   You know, it's funny; I quickly found out where half my 
friends were at.  'Hey, man, fuck your ego, stick it out.  You'll be a millionaire 
before the year is through.' "

Wakeman studiously avoided the press after announcing that he would quit 
Yes following the tour, leaving composers Jon Anderson (vocals), Steve Howe (guitars) 
and Chris Squire (bass) to fiercely defend their work.  One night a writer for 
Circus magazine wandered into Yes's dressing room after their set.  Eager 
for feedback, Anderson asked what the writer thought of the show.

"I thought it was boring," the writer replied, matter-of-factly.  Howe and 
Squire quickly joined the confrontation.  Howe, who composed most of 
Topographic Oceans, asked, "What was the problem with it?"

"There weren't enough songs, not enough melodies."

"Not enough songs?"  Anderson was amazed. "Not enough melodies?  
He began singing melodic portions from the piece.

The writer headed for the door.  "Don't ask me how I liked the show," he said.  
"Ask all the kids that walked out halfway through."

Wakeman, hearing the story out, chuckles at the recollection and wonders 
aloud why most musicians have no sense of humor.  "The guy had a point anyway," 
he says.  "I probably would have walked out halfway through, too."

Wakeman's humor apparently played a role in the break with Yes.  Howe told a 
reporter, "Yes was a straight-faced band and Rick wasn't."

[continued in part 2]


Transcribed by yesman 
December 25, 1995