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

[part THREE of four]

The Pittsburgh show got a frenzied, standing ovation (following Wakeman's 
impish encore of TV commercials - orchestral embellishments of Chevy, Juicy Fruit, 
Coca-Cola and Bold detergent melodic spiels), but Wakeman was distressed 
afterward.  The monitors had exploded halfway into Journey, and though the 
audience didn't seem to sense it, the piece became a shambles of blown notes 
and cues.  Measham and Wakeman locked themselves in the dressing room to debate 
future policy while changing into street clothes, with Rick, as always, in a T-shirt 
and brown leather pants.  In character, the exchange was short and simple:

"Next time we'll just stop the show until everything gets fixed," Rick said, wriggling 
out of his white cape and pants to reveal blue-and-red spotted briefs.  "The people 
will understand.  They want a decent show too."

A reviewer from a local paper, sitting silently in the room with his date, soberly 
interrupts:  "Why is it that all English rock stars wear print bikini underwear?"

"I don't know," Rick says to the surprise guest, not missing a beat.  "Why is it 
that all English rock stars wear print bikini underwear?"

"No, seriously.  Ian Hunter wears the same kind of underwear as you do."

"Don't forget the Bee Gees, Pete," reminds the writer's date.

"Right.  The Bee Gees too."

"I'll tell you something," Rick deadpans.  "We all share the same pair.  It's worked 
out great so far, except when the Bee Gees stretched them out rather badly 
on their last tour.  It's a bit of a tight fit, you know, getting all three Gibb brothers 
in one pair of print bikini underwear."

"No, seriously.  The Bee Gees played with an orchestra when they came here too.  
'Cept it wasn't really classical music like you guys."

Rick pours himself a Scotch and grumbles.  "Classical music has become a status symbol 
rather than an art form.  People seem to be laying out 35 bucks for a ticket just so 
they can casually mention at the office next day that they've been to a classical 
performance.  I went to a classical concert a couple of months ago and watched the 
audience very closely.   Fellow in front of me slept through the whole thing, but when 
the orchestra finished, he woke up, jumped to his feet and gave them a standing 
ovation.  It's silly.  People also seem to think that classical music somehow legitimizes 
rock & roll, which is just a lot of bullshit. ...C'mon David, let's go back to the bar."


The plane flight to Cleveland was a short hop over turbulent air.  Rick, forced to stay 
in his seat by stringent tour stewardesses, was content to down beers and discuss his 
newfound responsibility.  "All you can do is follow your heart," he said.  "If someone 
was to list the ten biggest musician cliches, that would surely top the list, but it's 
still the truth.  I believe very strongly in what I'm doing.  It takes me over a year to 
write something, prepare it and iron out the faults before I'll play it before an audience.  
If I get booed off the stage, then I'll obviously deserve it, but at least I will have bombed 
on my own terms.  To me, that's better than playing something that's a guaranteed 
success.  Topographic Oceans was a guaranteed success even before it was recorded.  
To go onstage and earn a lot of money from it... well, I felt like we were not only ripping 
people off but ripping ourselves off too.  Touring with an orchestra and a choir and all, 
I get knocked a lot for trying to tackle a style that's supposedly above my head.  If that's 
what I'm doing, I can't help it.  I don't deliberately sit down and say to myself, 'I will now 
write another classical/rock extravaganza.'  I don't work that way."  Wakeman has been 
working on his next album with a 45-piece studio orchestra, to be released early this year:  
The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

Behind the funny exterior, there lurks a virtuous Rick Wakeman.  "I'm a great 
believer in that if you're going to do something you should do it properly....If you 
believe you can do it better or as good as someone else, then you do it.  If you 
can't, then don't bother."

Yes's Jon Anderson, talking about the difference in background ("I wanted to put 
'musician' on my passport.  Now I'm a musician."), points out:  "He didn't always 
sound like Rick Wakeman.  He was a musical mimic of all his classical influences.  
Now, of course, his originality and his trademark of playing all those incredible 
instruments onstage at the same time is well known.  So he has grown a lot."

Wakeman entered England's prestigious Royal Academy of Music at 16, never 
expecting to be sidetracked by rock & roll.  He wanted to be a concert pianist 
(his father, Cyril, was a pianist for the Ted Heath orchestra; Rick began lessons 
at age four-and-a-half), but after studying piano and clarinet for 18 months, he 
left the Academy to teach music.  He didn't last long at that either and began 
working recording sessions for - among others - T. Rex, Cat Stevens and David 
Bowie.  It wasn't long before Dave Cousins, ever on the lookout for talent, invited 
him to join the Strawbs.  Rick accepted.  His first tour with the group doubled as a 
honeymoon with his wife, Roz.

(There is a glimpse of the nonmusic life of Wakeman through Roz.  The couple has 
two homes - a $125,000 estate outside of London and a seashore farm - two kids, 
Oliver and Adam - for whom Wakeman spent several hours and $500 toy shopping in 
New York - and two hobbies.  He collects cars - 36 antiques which he hires out to film 
companies and interested celebrities - and she collects animals.  Dogs, mostly, and so 
many in fact that he asked her before the tour to please not add more while he was away.  
He phoned and, hearing a background whimper, said, somewhat world-weary, "Another dog?"  
"No," she said, "an anteater.")

Wakeman recalls the Strawbs as "my wild oats period.  I'd jump around on the piano and 
kick about.  Got all that rubbish out of my system."  He stayed with the group for 15 months 
and two albums, A Collection of Antiques and Curios and From the Witchwood.  "The whole 
band got on so well as friends that none of us would take the chance of hurting each other's 
feelings.  We could never criticize each other.  After a while, everything became very bland."  
He began to moonlight as a sessions musician.  For Bowie's Hunky Dory, he became an integral 
part of the studio band.  Several months later, he was at a crossroads, with two big offers:  
One was to join Bowie's now defunct Spiders from Mars; the other was to replace Tony Kaye 
at the keyboards of an up-and-coming progressive band named Yes.

[concluded in part 4]


Transcribed by yesman
December 25, 1995