STEVE HOWE Beginnings CHRIS SQUIRE Fish Out off Water PATRICK MORAZ i ALAN WHITE Ramshackled JON ANDERSON Olias of Sunhillow

(all Atlantic)

Might as well confess out front that collectively, as Yes, I kinda like these guys. Not that they don’t have problems—I don’t think they’re ever gonna resolve the discrepancy between the celebratory nature of their lyrics and the formality of their presentation, for instance—but at least they refuse to stand still. It took guts to jump off the edge into Topographic waters, leaving behind that segment of their audience who got off only on their pretty harmonies and melodies, and with Relayer, they even overextended themselves in places, a strange move for these stagnant ’70s.

But now it’s the solo album syndrome taken to its logical confusion. The decision was reached that everyone in the group should have the opportunity to do one—only just and fair, you know. Too bad the results are mostly that-^just fair.

Take guitarist Steve Howe’s album. Steve has been the main instrumental force in the band for some time, even back when Wakeman was grabbing the headlines. But Beginnings shows no new sides to his musical personality except his voice, which is best left hidden in the harmonies. It’s too bad since a couple of songs, “Lost Symphony” and “Pleasure Stole The Night,” would be OK if somebody else sung ’em. As it turns out, Patrick Moraz’s ersatz Baroque arrangement on the title tune is the only unique thing on the record.

Squire’s Fish Out of Water turns out better. He’s easily as accomplished a lead singer as Jon Anderson (take that as you will) and he writes well on his own. But with no lead instrument to balance, he overdoes the bass-ics until you just ache for a guitar solo, and the bloated orchestral arrangements on “Safe” and “Silently Falling” don’t help.

An o.d. on countless keyboards is the main problem with Pat Moraz’s i but the empty virtuosity that could have dominated it is kept to a minimum. The album comes complete with concept, printed lyrics, and an exhaustively-detailed scorecard, all of which can be ignored or enjoyed, depending on your preference. What’s worthwhile about it is the way Patrick juggles and combines idioms—you just don’t hear Baroque riffs over Brazilian drum rhythms or maracas in chamber music situations very often, much less in sympathetic contexts. I’m not sure I accept or believe all this stuff but I’m still listening and still enjoying.

Let s see, who’s left? Oh yeah, Alan White, the drummer. Ramshackled is the kind of album you’d expect from a journeyman musician who joins a band after its identity has already been established. It’s just chock full of competence and diversity: below-Average White Band soulings. Soft Machine-like jazzrock, reggae, even William Blake. Hell, this isn’tarecord, it’s a resume.

Which leaves us with Jon Anderson’s solo opus, Olias of Sunhillow (you maybe wondered who was responsible for Yes’ abstruse/abstract lyrics?). Here, Jon is backed by . . . Jon Anderson. On guitars, keyboards, and percussion, no less, and he’s a one man Helium Dream Band, laying down tracks that are so ethereal, they float right past your ears up into the stratosphere. Ah well, chalk it up as a learning experience, not only for Jon who now knows how to play all sorts of instruments (sort of) but for all those lotusheads who’ll buy anything their heroes dish out.