There’s something hauntingly timeless about the way Steve Howe speaks about Yes’s 1970s era. When he calls it ‘wonderful’ and ‘innocent,’ it’s not just nostalgia—it’s a revelation. This isn’t some dusty relic of a bygone age; it’s a window into a creative mindset that dared to believe complexity could be beautiful. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Howe’s choice of favorites feels less like a list of tracks and more like a manifesto. These aren’t just songs; they’re cultural artifacts that whisper secrets about the soul of progressive rock. In my opinion, the 70s weren’t just a decade for Yes—they were a crucible where ambition, experimentation, and raw human emotion collided. And yet, we’re told that the band’s later work isn’t inherently lesser. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? How do you measure the value of a song that feels like it was born in a moment of unfiltered passion versus one that’s polished to perfection? Personally, I think the 70s magic lies in its imperfections. It’s the sound of a band still finding its voice, not afraid to stumble, to stretch, to break rules. Take Turn Of The Century from Going For The One—a track that feels like a bridge between eras. What many people don’t realize is that this song was a labor of love, a project that demanded the band dig deep into their softer side. It’s like a lullaby for headbangers, a reminder that even the most technical music can have a heart. The way Howe describes the collaboration with Jon Anderson—how the lyrics about a sculptor added layers to the music—is a masterclass in synergy. It’s not just about the notes; it’s about the stories they tell. This raises a deeper question: Can modern bands ever recapture that sense of discovery? Or are we too conditioned by algorithms and streaming metrics to risk the unknown? The answer, I suspect, lies in the very act of creation itself. Siberian Khatru from Close To The Edge is another case study in this tension. Howe’s admission that the band didn’t always ask, ‘What would we have done in the days of Close To The Edge?’ is both humbling and revealing. It’s a confession that even legends can fall into complacency. But here’s the thing: the 70s weren’t just about grandeur. They were about audacity. Tempus Fugit from Drama is a perfect example of how collaboration can redefine a band. Trevor Horn and Geoff Downes didn’t just add to the song—they transformed it. The dynamic energy, the decision to slow it down on stage, all of it speaks to a band finding its footing in a new era. Yet, the real magic is in the contrast. How does a band that once thrived on chaos and experimentation adapt without losing its essence? It’s a challenge that plagues every generation. South Side Of The Sky from Fragile feels like a snapshot of that struggle. The song’s structure—rocking, then light, then a solo that defied convention—mirrors the band’s own journey. The anecdote about spinning a microphone for the solo is a reminder that innovation often comes from playfulness. But what’s truly interesting is how Howe frames it as ‘not what I brought to the party.’ It’s a humbling admission that even the most iconic tracks are shaped by collective creativity, not individual genius. And then there’s The Revealing Science Of God (Dance Of The Dawn) from Tales From Topographic Oceans. This is where the rubber meets the road. A double album that divided critics and fans alike, yet somehow became a touchstone for the band’s legacy. Howe’s reflection on the pressure of proving the project’s worth is a universal truth for artists. The idea that putting yourself in the ‘uncertain’ space might be the key to greatness is a lesson that transcends music. It’s a call to embrace vulnerability, to trust the process even when the outcome is unclear. But here’s the kicker: the band’s later work wasn’t devoid of brilliance. The problem isn’t the quality of the music—it’s the context. The 70s were a time when art wasn’t yet burdened by expectations. Today, we’re so inundated with options that we’ve lost the ability to let a song take us somewhere unexpected. What this really suggests is that the value of these 70s tracks isn’t just in their sound—it’s in their defiance of the status quo. They remind us that music isn’t just about technical prowess or commercial success. It’s about the courage to create something that might not be understood immediately. As I reflect on this, I can’t help but think about the current state of music. Are we too focused on perfection? Too afraid to take risks? Steve Howe’s choices aren’t just about preference—they’re a challenge to the modern listener. To sit with a song, to let it unfold without the crutch of instant gratification. Because in the end, the truest measure of art isn’t its reception—it’s its ability to linger in the soul long after the final note fades.
