Saw this on fb today, from Wakeman's memoirs.
Yes, we were the original Spinal Tap, says Rick Wakeman of Seventies prog-rock supergroup
We were playing a gig at the Manchester Free Trade Hall when I realised quite how different my lifestyle was from that of the other members of Yes.Tales From Topographic Oceans, our grandiose 1973 album, was regarded by fans and critics alike as our most 'challenging' and I was really struggling with the tour.
Not because it was hard work - quite the opposite, in fact. As the keyboard player, there were quite a few passages where I had nothing to do or was just holding down one key.
There was a mad percussion section where everybody banged things. It lasted about ten minutes, though it felt like a year and a half when playing it - and probably when listening to it. It was a bit dull.
In those days, I used to have my roadie actually lying underneath the Hammond organ throughout the set. If anything went wrong he could try to fix it. Also, he could continually hand me my alcoholic drinks.
We'd often have a little chat and on this particular evening in Manchester, I thought he said: 'What are you doing after the show?'
'I'm going to have a curry,' I replied. 'What would you order?' It seemed a strangely specific question but I didn't have much else to do so I told him. 'Chicken vindaloo, pilau rice, half a dozen poppadums, bhindi bhaji, Bombay aloo and a stuffed paratha.'
About 30 minutes later, I started to get this distinct waft of curry. I looked down and my roadie was lying there holding up an Indian takeaway. 'What's that?' I asked.
'You said you wanted a curry.' 'No. I said I wanted a curry after the show...' However, it smelled really good so he passed up the little foil trays and I laid this lovely spread out on top of the keyboard and ate it.
The rest of the band weren't best pleased - after all, there was a certain mystique surrounding Yes.
The singer, guitarist, bassist and drummer were all thoughtful people - interested in philosophy and alternative lifestyles and this was an image at odds with the fact that the keyboard player was a beer-swilling, darts-playing, meat-eating oaf, one who would happily eat a curry in the middle of a show.
I had joined Yes in 1971. I was a classically trained musician who had worked with numerous artists as a session musician. I played on David Bowie's Life On Mars, Cat Stevens's Morning Has Broken and even on some Des O'Connor records, though I kept that quiet.
Yes was already well established as 'progressive rock' band and had a reputation for lengthy numbers, complex music and cerebral lyrics.
It wasn't the sort of outfit that attracted groupies: our fans were more likely to throw synthesizer manuals on stage than knickers.
The other four members of the band - guitarist Steve Howe, singer Jon Anderson, bassist Chris Squire and drummer Alan White - were all technically gifted musicians and, without being immodest, we were a huge band with massive record sales. Our live shows were sellouts and very ambitious.
Indeed, sometimes I needed directions just to get to my keyboards.
'Take a left here, Rick, climb over that giant mushroom, past the spaceship and just behind, beyond that cloud, are your keyboards.'
There are people who think the film This Is Spinal Tap is simply a very funny 'mockumentary'. Well, with Yes we lived it.
Take the hilarious scene in the film in which the bass player is trapped in a giant pod - that actually happened to Alan one night.
It also occurred during the Tales From Topographic Oceans album tour. That was not my favourite Yes album and I said so at the time. Maturely, I renamed it Tales From Toby's Graphic Go-Kart.
The grandiose elements of Yes were spiralling out of all control and the stage set was unbelievable. It had been designed by Roger Dean, who had done the album cover, and reflected the record's artwork.
The drum kit was inside a giant seashell, which would open after the show started, revealing Alan doing his stuff. However, one night when the curtain went up the gearing jammed and he was trapped inside.
The problem was, it was a sealed unit, so Alan quickly began running out of air.
As this was live on stage in front of thousands of people, Alan, the consummate professional, continued playing. Meanwhile the roadies began trying to smash the pod open, staying out of the line of sight of the crowd so no one noticed.
Before long, they had to start pumping oxygen in until eventually, somehow, they prised the wretched thing open with pickaxes.
By now the audience must have noticed the rescue effort because as the pod sprang open a huge cheer went up, and Alan stumbled out gasping for breath.
Of course, back in the Seventies, audiences assumed that whatever happened on the stage was intentional.
In my previous band, the Strawbs, I'd had a Hammond organ on wheels. When we were playing the last number of the night I would push this thing across the stage and race after it while playing it.
One evening I pushed a bit too hard and the Hammond went hurtling towards the edge of the stage. I dived on top of it to try to slow it down but organ and organist crashed over the edge. The Hammond was smashed to smithereens and I was cut to ribbons.
I was mopping the blood from my face when a journalist came over. 'Great show, Rick,' he said, 'but how can you afford to wreck a Hammond every night?'
There was another occasion, playing with Yes in Toronto, when one of my synthesizers, a Minimoog, broke down.
By chance, Dr Robert Moog, the brilliant electronic music pioneer and inventor of the Minimoog, was at the gig. During the interval, when the curtain was down, Bob said: 'I think I know what the problem is - do you want me to go out and take a look?'
'That would be great, if you don't mind,' I said. 'You know we're back on in about ten minutes, right?'
'That's fine,' he said. When we got the call to go back on stage, I navigated my way over to the keyboards and Bob was still there, surrounded by the innards of a Minimoog. He had dismantled it.
'Bob, Bob, we're about to start,' I hissed, but he was completely distracted. 'Yes, I think I know what the problem is,' he said prodding a circuit board.
The curtain went up and Yes had suddenly acquired a sixth member who was messing about with a complicated piece of electronic wizardry in the middle of the stage, completely oblivious to the audience of 20,000 punters, all of whom appeared to accept this as perfectly normal.
At the end of the show, at which time Bob was still happily tinkering with the synth, I introduced him to the audience who gave him a standing ovation. Bob looked up and said: 'Oh, are you ready to start now?'
When Yes started to perform 'in the round' - where a circular stage is planted in the middle of the venue with the audience all around the band - getting to our instruments was suddenly a major headache.
I think it was Jon who came up with a solution. 'We need a tunnel, then we can all get to the stage in one piece and quickly,' he said.
'We can't dig a tunnel under the floor of every venue, Jon,' I said.
'No, Rick, an overground tunnel. It will look fantastic.'
We had this immense tunnel built out of what appeared to be very strong rice paper. It looked like the world's biggest Chinese lantern. Using the finest engineering science known to man, we based it on the Slinky, those toys that flip down stairs.
The tunnel folded in on itself for shipping and opened up for the show. We ran lights through the inside and it looked absolutely brilliant. As the music started to play, the band members would march through the tunnel and our silhouettes would alert the audience to our presence, raising the tension even more.
The crew, meanwhile, hated it. The paper would rip, the wooden frames would split, it never folded properly, it took too long to work and it was almost impossible to cart around. They made their feelings known - and we completely ignored them.
The very next show they took their revenge. The music duly started and we all strode excitedly along inside the illuminated tunnel, only half noticing that the sound of the audience was getting further and further away.
Finally we came to a halt by a large green EXIT sign. Unbeknown to us, the crew had redirected the tunnel away from the stage.
Touring with Yes was generally great fun and I got on well with the rest of the guys but we were like chalk and cheese in many respects.
I was unique in the band as a card-carrying Conservative. They were all teetotal, while I could drink for England. And they were all vegetarians - I was an unashamed carnivore.
I have no objection to vegetarians (though I don't understand why, if you don't eat meat, you make tofu look like sausages or burgers) but some of the band were extreme with their vegetarianism.
For a couple of them, having a meal consisting entirely of vegetables was not enough - they had to know the farming methods used in their production, the name of the guy who planted them and, ideally, the species and health of the birds whose droppings had enriched the organic soil.
Well, that might be possible these days in a wholefood specialist shop, but in a Holiday Inn coffee shop in the American Deep South in the early Seventies? Some of the band were going without food for days and it was becoming impossible. So we decided to take a chef on the road.
I pointed out that I did not want to spend every night of the tour munching on a single lettuce leaf washed on the banks of the Nile by spiritually enlightened shamans. The band agreed that the chef could cook separate meat-crammed meals for me.
On the first Saturday, he said: 'Rick, do you fancy a nice roast tomorrow?' 'Bloody hell, do I fancy a roast? Absolutely,' I replied.
We played the Sunday show and, back at the hotel, all sat down to eat. The chef brought out the rest of the band's food first: some chives, a carrot or two and some celery sticks. They all tucked in, saying, rather unconvincingly, that the meal was delicious.
Then the chef returned with an enormous silver platter on which sat a magnificent golden-brown 22lb turkey, sausages wrapped in bacon, potatoes and parsnips.
The veggies around the table stopped eating, their forks suspended in mid-air. The chef put the roast in front of me and started serving it up - the aroma was incredible.
Then someone said: 'Er, could I try some roasted potatoes or parsnips, please?'
'Sorry, chaps, cooked in goose fat,' replied the chef.
I piled my plate high and got stuck in. With the exception of guitarist Steve, who was the most committed of the veggies, everyone watched my every mouthful. After they had finished their meals, a mass exodus ensued, clearly to avoid being around this delightful roast for too long.
A few minutes later, the door opened. It was Alan, our drummer. 'All right, Rick. I was thinking, I know I'm veggie and all that but to be honest I do eat the occasional piece of white meat. Any chance I could try some of the turkey?'
'Of course, help yourself,' I said. 'Thanks, but I'll take it back to my room, if that's OK.' He hastily put some of the turkey and trimmings on a plate and scurried off.
Five minutes later, Jon walked in. 'Rick. I was thinking, I do have the odd bit of chicken now and then, so I was wondering...'
He was followed by Chris. 'Be my guest,' I pre-empted.
I turned to the chef who was grinning widely. 'Probably best if you don't mention this, my friend...'
It was after the now infamous vindaloo incident at Manchester Free Trade Hall that I started to wonder about my future with the band. When the most enjoyable part of a live performance is the curry that you eat in the middle of it, you know that it's time to start thinking about moving on.
Due to circumstances and the musical direction in which we were heading, there was increasingly less and less I could put in and it was becoming very unrewarding.
After we'd finished the Tales From Topographic Oceans tour, we were due to start rehearsing new material on May 18, 1975 - I know the date because it was my birthday.
I'd gone down to my farmhouse in Devon to clear my head. It was a very weird day. First, I got a phone call from the Yes management asking why I wasn't at rehearsals.
'I told you, that's it, I'm off,' I said. 'I don't want to do this free-form jazz, I can't contribute anything to it, it's not me and I don't think it's Yes.'
They tried to talk me into rehearsing but my mind was made up. Five minutes later the phone rang and it was Terry O'Neil from A&M Records in London.
I had recorded Journey To The Centre Of The Earth as a solo project with the label. Terry sounded ecstatic.
'Rick, Journey has just gone to No1 in the album charts!' he cried.
It was time to move on for good.
© 2008 Rick Wakeman and Martin Roach.
Adapted from Grumpy Old Rock Star, by Rick Wakeman.