Rick Wakeman’s origin story is usually told in sequins: the capes, the spinning keyboards, the bombast of classic Yes. But the more interesting truth is smaller, sharper, and a little more ruthless. Before he was “Rick Wakeman of Yes,” he was a London session musician who could walk into a studio cold, read anything, invent something better, and leave with a fee and no headlines.
Two of the biggest receipts from that era are permanently etched into popular culture: the crystalline piano on Cat Stevens’ “Morning Has Broken,” and the keyboard colors around David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” including the era’s fascination with Mellotron-style “orchestral” illusion. Those parts aren’t just good session work. They are the hooks that listeners remember even when they can’t name the player.
“Before Yes… I was a session musician.”
Rick Wakeman, quoted in Sound On Sound’s Rick Wakeman profile
The London session scene: where virtuosity met anonymity
Late 60s London was a strange economy. Bands needed records fast, labels wanted radio-ready polish, and studios kept a short list of musicians who could deliver under pressure with zero drama. If you were “first-call,” you weren’t just talented – you were reliable, literate in styles, and psychologically steady when the red light came on.
Wakeman’s profile fit the job: conservatory-level chops, strong sight-reading, and a natural instinct for arrangement. Even more important, he had a knack for making artists sound like “themselves,” only larger, cleaner, and more inevitable.
That is the session-player superpower. The audience believes the magic belongs to the singer. The musicians know who actually solved the record.
“Morning Has Broken”: the piano that turned a hymn into a pop classic
Cat Stevens’ version of “Morning Has Broken” is often described as gentle and simple. That’s the illusion. The song’s emotional force comes from the piano, which doesn’t just accompany the vocal – it frames it like stained glass, giving the track its sense of sunrise and lift.
The official song page credits Rick Wakeman on piano for “Morning Has Broken.” That credit matters because this performance is not “background.” It’s melodic architecture: rolling broken chords, classical voice-leading, and a dynamic arc that makes the chorus bloom without becoming theatrical.
What Wakeman’s part actually does (musically)
- Creates motion without clutter: the right hand outlines harmony with lyrical, hymn-adjacent figures that never fight the vocal.
- Uses classical restraint: tasteful inversions and cadences that feel older than pop, which suits a traditional hymn text.
- Builds intensity by density: later sections thicken the texture, so the song “rises” without changing tempo or adding flashy fills.
In other words, it’s a rock keyboardist applying church-organ logic to a piano ballad. It sounds obvious now because it worked.
The provocative claim: this track quietly trained a generation to trust keyboards again
Rock’s early 70s split often paints keyboards as either “soft” (singer-songwriter records) or “showy” (prog). “Morning Has Broken” is neither. Wakeman’s playing is ornate but transparent, proving that keys could be emotionally central without turning the song into a soloist’s showcase.
That approach became a template for countless adult-contemporary and folk-rock recordings: let the piano lead, but make it feel like it was always there.
“Space Oddity”: Bowie’s early classic and the art of sonic world-building
“Space Oddity” is one of those records where production is part of the narrative. It isn’t simply a song about space; it sounds like a small room pretending to be the cosmos. That trick required timbral imagination, and it’s exactly where a versatile session keyboardist earns their money.
“Space Oddity” is commonly associated with its floating textures and early “astral” keyboard colors. The song’s long-standing documentation notes Wakeman’s involvement as a session player around “Space Oddity”. Even when credits and recollections vary in detail across reissues and retellings, the larger point remains: Bowie’s early studio sound was built by a rotating cast of elite London players who could add atmosphere fast.
Mellotron textures: why they mattered (and why people obsess over them)
The Mellotron’s entire appeal is audacious: recorded tapes of strings, choir, and flutes triggered by keys. It is simultaneously fake and emotionally persuasive, which is why it became a signature of late 60s psychedelia and early prog. The Mellotron’s tape-replay keyboard design enabled orchestral sounds without hiring an orchestra.
On a record like “Space Oddity,” those kinds of sounds are not decoration. They are set design. They suggest distance, weightlessness, and technology, even when the band is basically guitars, drums, and voice.
Keyboard choices as storytelling
Wakeman’s early-session value wasn’t only that he could play. It was that he could choose a sound and register that communicated “scene” immediately. In a few bars, keys can imply a cathedral, a carnival, or outer space – and Bowie was already obsessed with character and theatre.
That’s why the keyboards on “Space Oddity” are discussed like plot points. They help sell Major Tom’s isolation and the track’s cinematic pacing, especially in the transitions where harmony and texture do the emotional work.
How session work forged “Rick Wakeman of Yes”
It’s tempting to treat the session years as a footnote before fame. In reality, they are the training montage. Studio work forces a musician to master the unglamorous skills that define a great band member: editing your ego, serving the song, and delivering under time constraints.
That practical intelligence is all over his later Yes work: massive parts that still lock to the arrangement like engineered components.
Session habits that translate directly to prog greatness
- Fast arrangement instincts: hearing what a track needs in minutes, not days.
- Sound as orchestration: choosing timbres that function like sections of an ensemble.
- Clean execution: playing complex figures consistently, which is what makes “epic” music actually recordable.
First-call economics: why the best players were often the least famous
Here’s the edgy truth: the music industry has always been comfortable letting anonymous specialists do the hard work while front-people collect mythology. Session players were paid for precision, not for narrative. The audience was sold a star, not a team.
That imbalance is exactly why Wakeman’s pre-Yes credits feel so revealing. You hear the same fingerprints in wildly different settings: a tender, hymn-like pop single; a sci-fi ballad that needed otherworldly color; the later maximalism of prog. The common thread is an arranger’s mind inside a performer’s hands.
Listening guide: what to listen for (even on casual playback)
On “Morning Has Broken”
- Intro clarity: notice how the opening establishes harmony and mood before the vocal arrives.
- Left-hand steadiness: the pulse is supportive, not percussive, which keeps the track warm.
- Dynamic shaping: crescendos feel like natural breath, not like “piano drama.”
On “Space Oddity”
- Texture changes between sections: keys often signal emotional shifts before lyrics do.
- High-register color: thin, airy tones imply space and distance.
- Sustained, choir-like pads: this is where Mellotron-style thinking enters, whether via Mellotron itself or similar orchestral textures.
What this means for players today (and why it still matters)
If you’re a keyboardist, Wakeman’s session-era legend is a practical lesson: being “first-call” is less about being the loudest musician in the room and more about being the person who makes the record sound expensive. Learn to read, learn to arrange, learn to pick sounds that communicate story instantly.
If you’re a listener, it’s an invitation to re-credit your favorite records. Plenty of the most iconic moments in 60s and 70s music were built by specialists whose names weren’t on the poster.
Wakeman didn’t just arrive in Yes fully formed. He was forged in the studio economy, where every bar had to justify itself. And when you hear that piano on “Morning Has Broken” or the cosmic keyboard haze around “Space Oddity,” you’re hearing the same thing: a hired gun quietly stealing the scene.
Conclusion
Rick Wakeman’s pre-Yes work is not trivia; it’s the blueprint for his later fame. “Morning Has Broken” shows his ability to elevate a song without hijacking it, while “Space Oddity” highlights the era’s obsession with keyboard-driven atmosphere and the session musician’s role in building worlds.
The cape came later. First came the kind of musicianship that makes stars possible.
