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In the annals of progressive rock history, few albums arrive bearing as much baggage, expectation, and sheer bloody-minded confusion as Yes's 1991 effort Union. To understand this peculiar beast, one must first navigate the labyrinthine soap opera that was Yes in the late 1980s – a tale of egos, lawsuits, and competing lineups that would make even the most seasoned rock journalist reach for the aspirin.

By 1989, the prog titans had effectively split into two warring factions: Yes featuring Jon Anderson, Tony Kaye, Trevor Rabin, Chris Squire, and Alan White (the commercially successful 90125 lineup), and Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe, comprising the classic early-70s formation minus Squire, who retained the rights to the Yes name. Both camps were recording simultaneously, creating a surreal situation where two versions of essentially the same band were competing for the same audience. Enter Atlantic Records with a Solomonic solution that pleased no one: force both lineups to record together under the Yes banner, creating what would become Union.

The result is less an album than an archaeological dig through the competing visions of what Yes should sound like in the post-MTV era. Union feels like two separate EPs awkwardly stitched together – which, in many ways, it was. The 90125 contingent brought their radio-friendly, guitar-driven approach, while the ABWH faction delivered the complex, keyboard-heavy compositions that had made Yes legends two decades earlier. That these disparate elements don't quite gel shouldn't surprise anyone; what's remarkable is that Union works as often as it does.

The album's opening salvo, "I Would Have Waited Forever," immediately signals the schizophrenic nature of the enterprise. Rabin's soaring guitar work and Anderson's ethereal vocals create something genuinely moving, a power ballad that manages to avoid the era's worst AOR excesses. It's followed by "Shock to the System," a driving rocker that sounds like Yes attempting to crack the Modern Rock charts – and very nearly succeeding.

The true gems, however, emerge when the band stops trying to chase contemporary trends and embraces their prog DNA. "Lift Me Up" builds from delicate beginnings into a soaring anthem that recalls the band's 70s peak, while "Without Hope You Cannot Start the Day" offers vintage Anderson mysticism wrapped in surprisingly accessible arrangements. Rick Wakeman's contributions, particularly on the sprawling "The More We Live – Let Go," remind listeners why his keyboard wizardry was so crucial to Yes's golden period.

Yet Union's greatest strength – its attempt to reconcile Yes's past and present – is also its fatal flaw. The album lurches between styles with jarring inconsistency. "Saving My Heart" could have been lifted from any late-80s rock radio playlist, while "Masquerade" ventures into prog territory so dense it threatens to collapse under its own weight. The production, handled by Jonathan Elias, attempts to smooth over these disparities but often leaves both factions sounding neutered.

The album's most ambitious moment arrives with "Dangerous (Look in the Light of What You're Searching For)," a seven-minute epic that finds common ground between the two lineups' approaches. Here, Rabin's guitar heroics complement rather than compete with Wakeman's keyboards, while Anderson's vocals soar above the controlled chaos. It's a tantalizing glimpse of what Union might have been with more time and less corporate interference.

Union peaked at number 15 on the Billboard 200, a respectable showing that nonetheless felt like a commercial disappointment after the massive success of 90125 and Big Generator. The supporting tour, featuring all eight members on stage simultaneously, was a logistical nightmare that somehow worked, creating spectacle enough to distract from the music's inconsistencies.

In the three decades since its release, Union has been largely dismissed as a corporate folly, a cautionary tale about the perils of trying to have one's cake and eat it too. This assessment, while not entirely unfair, overlooks the album's genuine moments of inspiration. Union represents Yes at their most confused, certainly, but also at their most human – a band of aging prog gods grappling with relevance, legacy, and the simple desire to make music together.

Today, Union stands as a fascinating artifact of rock's corporate era, when record labels wielded enough power to force artistic compromises that seem unthinkable now. It's not the Yes album anyone wanted, but it might