Chris Squire: A Tribute and a Memory

Reid and I were totally star-struck.

There they were, two members of Yes sitting an arm’s length away in a hotel lounge in Hampton, and Reid and I were speechless. Didn’t ask for autographs. Didn’t tell them how much we loved their music.

The Rickenbacker bass I bought in 1971 is still going strong.

More than loved, actually, because we spent hours and hours and hours learning the licks and nuances of songs like “Roundabout” and “Close to the Edge.” The technical demands of the time signatures, chords and riffs put musical meat on our bones.

More than that, the bass playing of Chris Squire, Yes’ co-founder, had changed my musical world. I grew up with classical training, but I cut my rock teeth on Paul McCartney, whose lyrical bass lines undergirded the Beatles’ music. I truly knew I wanted to be a bassist, however, when I heard John Entwistle’s playing on The Who’s “My Generation.” Good Golly! A bass solo like a rocket going from one ear to another in your head! I want that!

John Paul Jones. Noel Redding. Jack Bruce. Jack Cassidy. All great, and I learned from them all. But when Reid, my younger brother, guitarist extraordinaire and musical soul mate, brought home “The Yes Album” in the summer of 1971, something clicked. The bass sound — full, round, deep, clean, crisp, bright, sustained — and the playing — delicate at times, hard and heavy at others — defined something that had existed unformed in my head. Like someone articulating perfectly something you had always wanted to say.

We saw Yes that fall at University Hall at William and Mary. Yes was on its “university tour,” playing to college crowds hip enough to get progressive rock. Not that Yes invented it — King Crimson and others had a slight lead on them — but this was heady, intelligent stuff. We had fifth row seats. (Laughable in hindsight, Yes was the opening band for Ten Years After, of Woodstock fame.) It was a powerful show, satisfying in every way. “Close to the Edge” had just been released, but as I recall much of their set was from “Fragile,” (that’s the one with their most identifiable hit, “Roundabout”). Steve Howe on guitar, Jon Anderson on lead vocals, Bill Bruford on drums, a very young Rick Wakeman on keyboards and Squire on bass. What a huge sound.

At the heart of that sound was Squire’s bass. He played a Rickenbacker with Rotosound round-wound strings (which were developed by John Entwistle). The sustain and clarity were unlike anything I’d heard. That winter, I bought a Rickenbacker. The night I brought it home I stayed up so late playing it that I fell asleep with the bass lying across my stomach.

We saw Yes again at Baltimore Civic Center on their “Tales From Topographic Oceans” tour, and by the time the band came to Hampton in 1977, their lineup had changed. Drummer Alan White, not Bruford, was sitting with Squire just a few feet from us in that hotel lounge. It was several hours before their show at the Hampton Coliseum, and they were chilling. Nursing a couple of beers. Graciously accommodating fans coming up and saying the silly things fans say, like “I’m your biggest fan!”

Reid and I, however, were really their biggest fans. We’d begun the day with steely resolve. The plan was to go to Hampton early in the day, track down where Yes was staying and, by jiminy, meet up and hang out with whomever we could find in the group. Steve Howe was tops on Reid’s list; Squire on mine.

We went to a Hampton music store and asked if anyone knew where Yes was staying. Nobody was sure but one guy tossed out some possibilities. We went to one hotel. No luck. At the second, we decided to sit for a bit. Sure enough, Squire and White ambled in wearing their rock star clothes (they were obviously from another planet) and plunked down at the table right next to us.

You never know how you’re going to react in intense, life-defining situations — in combat, for example. Or on a first date. Or when your rock idols are sitting close enough to share a beer.

In retrospect, we certainly should have at least bought them a beer. That’s what Reid said when we were reminiscing last week about the episode. That’s when we got the news that Chris Squire died from erythroid leukemia. He was 67.

I’ll be 67 in November. I still have that Rickenbacker bass. I still can play that signature bass lick in “Roundabout.” I still get chills listening to Yes’ best moments — the closing chorus to “Close to the Edge,” for one. And I still feel Squire’s presence and influence in my playing.

Reid and I look back on that episode and laugh now. I think Squire would have chuckled as well. I couldn’t say it then, so I’ll say it now.

We were your biggest fans.