Yes

Yes is not just a band; it's an architecture of sounds where each instrument seems to converse in another language. Their songs are not played: they are breathed, they expand like landscapes that shift shape without losing their essence. Chris Squire's bass doesn't follow the rhythm—it holds it with melodic lines that intertwine with Jon Anderson's vocals, creating layers of harmonies that defy gravity. The keyboards don't decorate; they build sonic cathedrals, as in Fragile, where Rick Wakeman turned synthesizers into orchestras. And Bill Bruford's drums don't mark the beat—they challenge it with rhythms that move in 5/4 or 7/8, as if time itself were malleable. That is what defines their sound: an obsession with complexity that, ironically, never sounds forced.

The turning point came with The Yes Album in 1971. Until then, the band mixed covers with original ideas, but on that record, they found their voice: songs like Yours Is No Disgrace proved they could write anthems that lasted eight minutes without losing their hook. Two years later, Close to the Edge took that ambition to the extreme. The titular suite, divided into three movements, is a journey without a map where tempo changes and chord modulations succeed each other like waves in an ocean. Wakeman, newly arrived, brought a virtuosity that elevated the keyboard to the level of the guitar—something rare in rock at the time. That album cemented them as architects of progressive rock, but it also marked them: from then on, every record would be a riskier bet.