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Your dad’s old, beaten up acoustic guitars rests comfortably between your knees, The summer sun is hot behind the thick, brown curtains y/n’s had since you were little. The bed, the utility dressing table, the threadbare carpet, the busy 1960s wallpaper: it all speaks of y/n’s parents and the family who owned the house before your family. But the rest of it: the cheap portable record player, the increasingly large stack of records, the David Cassidy poster above the bed and the Yes poster by the window speak of you.
You’re strumming out the acoustic section from ‘Space Oddity’ when your dad calls you into the living room. Your mum is smoking a Marlboro. Dad is standing with his back to you. Your heart sinks into your stomach. Something is wrong.
‘D-did… Grandma die or something?’ You say, nervously.
Margaret Thatcher is giving a speech on the TV in the background. ‘Turn that off, will you, <your dad’s name>?’ Mum says.
Dad sighs and turns the TV off. ‘Y/n,’—he addresses y/n without even turning to look at you—‘as you know, I’ve been on the dole since the steelworks closed. The bank are talking about repossessing the house, and that isn’t an option—it just isn’t.’ Your mother sobs. ‘<Your mum’s name>, please. Listen y/n, we need to make some money, and fast. Y/n, I’m sorry to say this, but we’re selling you.’
‘What about Dr King?’ you say, aghast, ‘Didn’t he have like a dream or something?’
‘This is Sheffield, sweetheart,’ Mum says, ‘there ent been any dreams round here in a long time.’
‘The agent seems like a nice man,’ Dad says, trying to sound reassuring, ‘he said there’ll be use for your musical talent. It’s an opportunity, really.’
‘An opportunity?’ you yell, ‘You’re selling me, your own son/daughter/child! This is totally BOGUS!’ Y/n run to you bedroom and hide under the blankets. You cover your ears to block out the sound of your mum sobbing in the kitchen.
*
The agent, Stan, puts you in the back of the car. You curl up across the seats, because you have no legal obligation to wear a seatbelt. The windscreen wipers flap against the windscreen as the car drives into the night for what seems like an eternity. You stop once in a lay-by to have a wee by the side of the road, while Stan smokes a menthol cigarette. Eventually, you fall asleep to the soft static of the radio.
When you wake up, the horizon is stained with the soft pink of dawn and the car is pulling into a hotel carpark. You sit up and yawn. ‘You alright back there, y/n?’ Stan asks you. You reply with a sigh. ‘Listen, I’ll take you up to the room and you have a nice kip, then we’ll see about breakfast.’
Over a hamburger in a Wimpy restaurant, Stan explains everything. Stan isn’t his real name—of course. ‘The guys are really excited to meet you. They’re going through some shit, you see—they have differing opinions on their last album. They could do with someone to help them with bits and bobs: studio set up, running errands and all that, ideas, possibly. Your dear old dad said you’re a musician.’
‘Not so dear anymore,’ you mutter, ‘yeah, I play guitar and the piano. I can’t read sheet music or anything, I just jam to my records.’
‘Interesting. What do you like to listen to?’
‘Oh, lots of different acts: Bob Dylan, David Cassidy, Genesis, Kate Bush, but I love Yes best of all… and Rick Wakeman’s solo albums, of course.’
Stan gets a knowing twinkle in his eye and pats you on the shoulder. ‘Well y/n, let’s get over to the studio and meet the band. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.’
*
Your jaw drops. The members of beloved prog-rock band, Yes, are milling about as techs set up the studio. Your eye is drawn to the staggering keyboard rig. Keyboardist Rick Wakeman and singer Jon Anderson are having a chat, nearby. You can’t believe it. ‘I’ve been sold to Yes?’ you gasp.
‘Yes.’ Stan chuckles at the unavoidable pun.
You are stunned into silence. Perhaps being sold into indentured servitude isn’t such a bad thing after all.
‘Go on, say hello.’ Stan says with a surprisingly encouraging smile for a man participating in modern slavery.
Slowly, nervously, you shuffle up to Rick and clear your throat. ‘M-Mr Wakeman, sir.’
Rick looks up from three to four keyboards, cape glittering authoritatively. ‘So you’re y/n?’
Y/n brush your long, wavy/curly/straight ≤regardless of your RL hair length≥, hair out of your face <if you have afro hair you sport a 70s afro and do not perform this action>. ‘Y-yes.’
‘Haha, yeah, that’s us!’ Rick beams. ‘I don’t know how much Stan told you about us, but we’re not just looking for someone to help us out, we really want you to be part of the team.’
‘Yes, Mr Wakeman.’
Rick’s eyes scrunch up when he smiles. ‘Please, call me Rick. Let me show you something I’m working on.’ Rick plays a melody that will later become the opening track to 1984.
*
After the practice session, Rick takes you back to his house—more like a mansion! He shows you the walk-in wardrobe where he stores his capes—of every colour and texture—and the dressing room he uses to put his capes on; the home recording studio with its 24 track analogue mixing desk; the dining room with its long mahogany table and lavish candelabra and the surprisingly humble kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks.
‘Famished!’ you reply.
‘Good, me too!’ Rick makes you a jam sandwich and a glass of squash. For dessert: ample helpings of chocolate blanc mange.
*
You start yawning at the table, so Rick takes you to your new bedroom. You take your shoes off and wiggles your toes on the brown shag carpet. It’s chic and modern, with wooden panelling, orange wallpaper, and a brown glass ashtray on the bedside table. The Tales From Topographic Oceans gold record is displayed above the bed. Your mouth falls open for the second time that day.
‘You like Tales From Topographic Oceans?’ Rick asks.
‘Oh yes,’ you respond enthusiastically, ‘it’s the bomb.’
Rick smiles. ‘You know, I was never really satisfied with that one.’
‘Because it was like totally pretentious?’ You gasped and throw your hands over your mouth, but Rick chuckles warmly.
‘I was going to say, experimental, but if you like it, then I think I should reconsider.’
Rick leaves you to settle into your bedroom. You put on the set of plaid pyjamas folded on the pillow and snuggle up under the blankets. You give the record one last look before closing your eyes. What a day!
*
You wake to the early morning sun streaming through a gap in the curtains. It’s too early to get up just yet. You stretch into the voluminous pillows and super-soft mattress; you’ve never slept so well. You close your eyes and listen to the morning chorus as you drift. No cars rolling by on their way to work. No clattering as your mother makes breakfast, no muttering for your father as he believes everything he reads in the <questionable news publication of your father’s choice>. You’ve never felt so restful.
Nature calls. You explore your room and find a door that leads to an en-suite bathroom. The avocado suite includes a bidet—the luxury! After using the toilet, it occurs to you that you haven’t washed since you left home, so you make yourself a bubble bath.
There’s a knock on the door. You dry yourself in a fluffy towel and put on the flannel dressing gown hanging on a hook on the door. When you return to your bedroom there’s no one better, but a tray filled with breakfast goodies has been placed on the sideboard. You work your way through marmalade and toast, boiled egg, a rasher of bacon and sugar puffs <alternatively, any breakfast foods that you like and were available in the 70s> until you are pleasantly full.
You find lots of clothes in your size in the chest of drawers. It seems that Rick, or whoever bought them for you, was unsure of what you like, so presented you with a range of different styles. You pull on some flared jeans and a Joni Mitchell T-shirt.
*
You find Rick demolishing eggy soldiers in the kitchen. ‘Settle in, alright?’ he asks.
‘Yes, thanks. The bed is so comfortable.’
‘I’m glad you like it; I tested all the mattresses in the house myself before I bought them.’
*
Yes are preparing for the next leg of their tour. Stan has ordered you a passport. Everyone talks about flying to America, in a private jet, no less, as if its as ordinary as catching a bus. You start off running errands for them, but when Rick hears that you play the piano, he assigns you to help the keyboard tech.
*
While the band members joke around, you clutch your arm rests and gasp. The jet pierces through a thick layer of cloud, and then you’re in raw sunlight. This will all be normal to you, too, one day.
*
Tour life isn’t as glamorous as you’d imagined. The days are long and there’s a lot of waiting around. You lift boxes and lay cables. You help set up the keyboard rig and iron Rick’s capes. The tour bus drives through the night and somehow you learn to sleep with the road under you. Rick lets you play around with his synthesizers during sound check. You sound good, he says, I’ve been struggling with a new song and could use your input. Soon the other guys are asking for your input, too.
*
The icing on the cake, the thing that makes all of this is the music, the sea of lighters, a thousand people cheering and singing in concert. Watching Yes play a gig is pure magic. When the guys come off stage they all high five you. ‘We couldn’t do it without you.’ Jon says with a wink.
*
Yes are joined by new up and coming prog rock band, the Scrungle Lads for support. They’re a nice bunch of young guys, not much older than you. They have their own bus but regularly join your crew to drink and play scrabble. You often catch yourself staring at the baby-faced synth player and they seem to relish in it.
‘I heard you playing during soundcheck, earlier.’ The synth player says, one evening. ‘Seriously, you’re going to be big one day.’
*
The tour seems to last forever, and then, just like that, it’s over. A long, lethargic flight and taxi ride later, you’re back at Rick’s. The stillness of his mansion and rural sounds are the perfect balm for your soul. Your old life is just a bad memory now, you wouldn’t go back to it for the world.
*
It’s been a long day in the rehearsal studio. You help the soundie lay cables and fetch snacks for the guys, but otherwise, you have nothing to do. At the end of the session, Rick hangs back until everyone has left.
‘Me and Jon are thinking of calling it quits.’ He says, abruptly.
Y/n are stunned to silence. You’d sensed that something was off, heard rumours that Rick wanted to focus on his solo career. ‘W-why? You’re all so perfect together.’
Rick shrugs. ‘Creative differences; it’s always the way.’ Creative differences. The one phrase, when uttered on The Old Grey Whistle Test or in a magazine, that makes your heart sink. Rick lays a hand on your shoulder. ‘But, y/n, how would you feel about becoming the keyplayer for Yes?’
‘But… I’m just a kid.’ You stammer
Rick gives you a knowing smile. ‘Maybe when I first met you, but not anymore. I think you’ve got what it takes.’
Y/n cover your mouth to suppress a yelp. ‘Oh my god that is totally trippin. Yes! Oh my god—YES!’
*
Y/n clear your throat in the rehearsal room. ‘I wrote a song, actually.’
The new singer, Trevor looks at you with curiosity. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’
‘It’s uh, it’s called “Owner of a Lonely Heart.”’ You begin to sing, quietly, at first, voice shaking, but as you launch into the chorus you find your feet. Y/n’s bandmates make eye contact and nod to one another. Feet begin to tap.
*
Y/n look across the oceanic crowd. You smile and raise a hand to Rick, in the VIP section to the side of the stage. He grins and waves back, cape gleaming magnificently in the stage lights. You’ll be amazing, he mouths. Y/n rest your fingers on the keys and play the opening chord; the analogue synth pad billows out from the speakers and fills Bristol Hippodrome to the brim. The audience falls silent.