The Revealing Science of God - All Twenty Minutes of it.

(YES at the Glasgow Armadillo 28.2.98)

About two hours into a particularly lengthy set, an extraordinary thing happened. Chris Squire threw himself down onto one knee, his back to the audience, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back, for all the world like an overly-flamboyant Sir Elton awaiting the regal sword-tap to the shoulder.

What could have prompted such a curious gesture? The reason was blindingly obvious - in the past two hours, we'd had the guitar solo, we'd had the bass solo, we'd had the keyboard solo. Now, the moment every audience dreads was upon us - the drum solo! Mr Squire's strange posture could have but one function - it was to give the audience the will to live, since by logical deduction, the drum solo could only last as long as his arms could remain in that blood-draining position. As selfless gestures go, this one ranks up there with the Spice Girls' refusal to learn how to sing in public!

The Return Of The Magnificent Solos was not the only reminder of a more ostentatious period of musical history. Lean and mean, and shorn of capes and laser-displays this incarnation of Yes may have been, but it was heartening for all us middle-aged hippies to see that at least some things are still sacred and irreplaceable.

Like carpets.

It may not have been the extensive Persian variety as popularised by Mr Greg Lake, but there was not getting away from the fact that Steve Howe's feet are still considered too precious to come into contact with bare boards.

Speaking of Mr Howe, it gives me no pleasure to relate that the years of decadence have taken their toll somewhat. Goverments should forget those "Just Say No" and "Choose Life" campaigns and simply circulate a few of the programme photos of Steve to any who might be tempted by a life of drug-taking and Roger Dean artwork. (Avoiding close-ups didn't help much either - from our position about half-way-up-and-back the hall, he looked to me like a curious genetic hybrid of Boris Karloff and Pavlov Mudshark! (er... no offense Pavlov- what you do in your spare time with ol' Boris is your own business) Age had, indeed, extracted its revenge on all the original members. Chris Squire had metamorphosed from Caped Avenger into someone exuding the menace of a bouncer at one of those night-clubs where they frisk you for knives at the door, and if you haven't got any, they give you one.

Jon Anderson displayed the vigour of his youthful years, all shiny hair and cold, wet nose, but sadly, still suffers from the delusion that wearing baggy clothes will in someway render him less... short... in the eye of the beholder. Oh dear me no! Take the advice of Flo Mudshark, (five-foot-one-and-a-half-inches), Jon, and loose the big shirts!

And lest I be accused of singling certain people out for criticism, it has to be said that the audience themselves were not walking adverts for the benefits of a high-fibre diet and Oil of Ulay. Were these really the slender and hirsute young men of the seventies, resplendant in cheese-cloth shirts and love-beads?

Now, twenty years later, on a freezing February night, the cheescloth was but a memory, as was most of the hair. Gone too, was the fine old tradition of going to a rock gig attired in the t-shirt of a totally different band. Whether it was the weather, or creeping middle age, I don't know, but the vast majority of the audience looked more like a bunch of passed-over-for-promotion bank clerks on their weekly pub-crawl than the hip-and-trendy types normally associated with rock & roll shennanigans. Which, on the whole, made me feel very much at home.

But what about the music?? Well, there at least, age had not dimmed their glitter-ball nor arthritis shortened the guitar solo. Kicking of with "Siberian Khatru" a veritable cornucopia of heirlooms was dusted down and polished off with precision and enthusiasm.

Now, call me old-fashioned and reactionary, but when I hear a piece of music being played which bears scant, if any, resemblance to what it's supposed to sound like, I don't immediately think ".. interesting variation.. fine example of extemporisation.." I think "The bugger's forgotten how it goes"

Many's the gig I've been to where I spent most of the time wishing the artist in question had spent some time listening to his or her own recordings before setting foot onstage,but fortunately no such memory-lapses bedevilled the Yessies. Ironic really, since they are probably better equipped musically than most to extemporise,improvise and make up bits as they go along, but to their credit, they eschewed the self-indulgent meanderings and worked their little bums off staying in tight musical formation and producing note-perfect virtuoso performances.

They played "Heart of the Sunrise", with Jon Anderson's vocals laughing in the face of the intervening years since its first inception (and probably making a gesture involving the slapping of the bicep of one arm by the other accompanied by the simultaneous rapid upward movment of the first arm), and that was worth the price of admission alone for me, but an even better surpise was in store.

They played "The Revealing Science of God". All twenty minutes of it!! Now I've always been breathless in my admiration for a band who can record a twenty minute track and give it a title of such awesome pretentiousness, but for them to have chutzpah to get up on stage in 1998 and deliver the entire thing, devoid of cuts, medley-isation or revision deserves our full and unstinting respect.

Those naughty Gallagher Brothers may trash hotel rooms and say bad words on the radio, but do they have the balls to play "The Revealing Science of God"? I think not!

This is anarchy! This is rebellion! This is rock and roll! (even if it does take a while).

I felt a curious sense of pride in being able to sit through the whole thing without even thinking about retreating to the bar for a swift pint. (or, let's face it, a fairly leisurely pint). This is not a feat which could be accomplished by either our parents' generation, or the post-punk posers with an attention span of two and a half minutes. To last the full twenty minutes was to make a statement, and that statement was "..I spent an unwholesomely large part of my late adolescence lying around in a stupor listening to a double album containing four tracks and indecipherable liner notes" Somehow, after that, everything seemed a bit of an anti-climax.

But the era of the twenty minute track is not dead. Far from it! For along with the cheesecloth shirts and mis-matched t-shirts, another long-cherished tradition of concert-going has receded with the hairlines. That of standing up. A combination of bunions, bad backs and bands with back catalogues of over 20 albums has ensured that these days bums-on-seats means exactly that! A more relaxed atmosphere pervades the more... mature... gig.

Twenty years ago, I would have baulked at the thought of standing through twenty minutes of The Science of God, however Revealing. These days, it's a positive pleasure to sit though it. It's also a pleasure to be able to afford the taxi and/or BMW home, for the truth of the matter is that it's better to be a comfortable and comfortably off thirty-something that it is to be a spotty oik freezing to death in a fashionble garment who's going to have to walk home. We have finally achieved our ambition to usurp the power-that-be by becoming them.

Yes fans have inherited the Earth!

It's a scarey thought!!


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