Yes
Time And A Word

THE REVIEW

Dream of a Midsummer Night… The music gently rocks me. The stereo speakers emit the soothing sound of the second CD by Yes: 'Time and a Word'.

From the window, you can see a cloudy sky and cars passing by. Meanwhile, the walls around me start to transform, and sleep begins to take over… In the dream, I find myself in a surreal painting. A barren and desolate land. Sprouts emerge from the ground. They quickly become first small trees, then enormous ancient oaks. Creation.

The soundtrack to this event is “No Opportunity Necessary, No Experience Needed,” a cover of Richie Havens, adapted in Yes style. This is a transition album between the beat of the first album and the progressive of 'The Yes Album'. I could define it as symphonic beat. In these tracks, you can hear the symphonic orchestra used by them for the first time to emphasize the most dramatic moments. I'm astonished. I start to have a claustrophobic attack in the midst of those large trees. Moreover, eyes have sprouted on the bark and are staring at me. I feel suffocated. I run away. Faster and faster. Fast. Fast.
I look around to see if there’s a place where I can breathe normally again and meanwhile, I tear away or dodge everything that blocks my path. But, the deeper I go, the denser and darker the forest becomes. “Then” plays, increasing in tension as I move forward. The chorus feels like false nonchalance, making everything more desolate. As if to indicate that my run will lead to nothing. It is followed by neurotic instrumental digressions. But everything stops suddenly. And even I, in the dream, stop and lie down on the ground. Kaye’s Hammond organ sketches an accompaniment to Anderson’s voice (always so clear and expressive), this time calm and resigned. The track ends.

I am lying down and can’t find the strength to get up. It's heavenly: no more worries, no frenzy, just me and the trees. A purple mist begins to cover me on the first notes of “Everydays,” a cover of Stephen Stills. Tranquillity. That’s what the song conveys at the start, aided by the orchestra's violins, which make the landscape even more idyllic. But then everything fades into another instrumental digression, even more aggressive than the previous one. At that moment, I violently tear myself away from the fog that seems to want to bind me there on the ground forever, only then to kill me. Now I'm standing and look disdainfully at my deceptive old bed. The music returns to what it was at the beginning.
They want me to go back there, but I turn and start walking. I don’t know where to go. I have no purpose. There’s no one to keep me company. I am alone. “Sweet Dreams.” The song already hints at the glorious future of Yes within progressive. The track vaguely resembles “Roundabout.” Inner insecurity and selfishness are the theme of the next song “The Prophet.” To an almost church-like introductory organ, violins are added. We all seek a truth, a certainty in our lives. Something to hold on to. And when we find a “new meaning,” we see things from a different point of view. And we realize that, in taking what we need, we must not forget what we need to give to others.

“Clear Days” begins, and in front of me, where there used to be trees, a grassy clearing forms. The song, so subtle, lulls me to sleep in the grass where I've fallen, full of joy for the newfound freedom. But with “Astral Traveller,” I return to reality. The rhythm is livelier. I see a house in the middle of the green clearing. Something pushes me to visit it. “Time And A Word.” In the only room of the house, the furniture is sparse. A man in a nineteenth-century frock coat with a bowler hat on his head stands with his back to me. I ask him if he can give me something to drink because all that running has made me thirsty. But he doesn’t answer, he pretends I’m not there. He remains still and motionless. I repeat the question, but nothing comes from the man’s mouth. Then I go behind him and force him to turn around. But I discover he has no face: no mouth, no eyes, no ears. Just a uniform mass of flesh. I let out a terrifying scream. But there’s something wrong.
From the man seem to come murmurs. That’s what it is! It’s a song: …There's a time and the time is now and it's right for me, It's right for me, and the time is now. There's a word and the word is love and it's right for me, It's right for me, and the word is love. There's a time and the time is now and it's right for me, It's right for me, and the time is now. There's a word and the word is love and it's right for me, It's right for me, and the word is love… I’m going mad. I don’t understand what it means. And I shout again: “Enough! This doesn’t make any sense! Enough!” But he keeps singing… I wake up drenched in sweat. The CD has ended. I can’t find a logical meaning to that dream. It doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s just a way my subconscious wanted me to appreciate this wonderful album, too often underestimated due to comparisons with the masterpieces and the subsequent lineup.

Sure, Peter Banks on guitar is rather mediocre, and at the time, they still had the typical innocence of hippies. But I wouldn’t replace that innocence with anything else. One question remains: what the hell did I smoke to have a dream like this?