Listening to the 5.1 surround mix of Trevor Rabin’s latest effort, *Rio*, is like being trapped inside a clock made of Fender Stratocasters and orchestral swells. The sound is dense, nearly impenetrable at times, but there is a logic to the chaos that only a guy who spent decades scoring Hollywood blockbusters could conjure. Rabin is not just a guitar player; he is an architect of frequency.
The Johannesburg-born multi-instrumentalist has spent the last 34 years away from the microphone, at least in a solo capacity. For a man who essentially saved Yes from the scrap heap in the 1980s with the slick, synth-heavy "Owner of a Lonely Heart," three decades is a long time to keep your mouth shut. But Rabin is not interested in the usual legacy act circuit where old rockers trot out the hits until the wheels fall off.
There is a restlessness to *Rio* that suggests he is still trying to outrun his own shadow. He is a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee and a former member of the ARW trio alongside Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman. Yet, he talks about his career like a man who just realized he left the stove on 30 years ago.
“I could say I’ve been procrastinating for 34 years,” Rabin confesses. It is a blunt admission for a guy whose resume is longer than a CVS receipt. The gap between his last vocal album and this one was not a lack of ideas, but a total pivot in priorities.
He walked away from the prog-rock machinery after the mid-90s tour for *Talk*, an album that was light years ahead of its time technically but struggled to find an audience in the era of grunge. Rabin felt he had hit a ceiling.
“After doing the ‘Talk’ album with Yes, I thought, I’ve given everything I can to that. I think it’s time to move on,” Rabin says. He traded the tour bus for the scoring stage, diving headfirst into the high-stakes world of film music. It was a realm he always wanted to conquer, and Hollywood was more than happy to have him.
The transition was supposed to be a brief sabbatical. He figured he would knock out a few scores and then get back to the business of being a rock star. But the momentum of the film industry is a difficult thing to break.
“I loved working with the orchestra, and I did that, and I thought I’d do four or five films and then do another rock album. And here I am years later, still looking at ‘Armageddon,’ one of the first movies I did, like it was yesterday,” Rabin says. The work became addictive. From the high-octane grit of *Con Air* to the emotional weight of *Remember the Titans*, Rabin became the go-to guy for directors who needed a specific kind of sonic muscle.
But something shifted a couple of years ago. The itch to write songs with lyrics and choruses—the kind that do not need a visual to justify their existence—became too loud to ignore. He realized that if he did not do it now, it might never happen.
“It’s so in my bones to do that, and I should just get the hell on and do it,” Rabin recounts. The process was not about waiting for a lightning bolt of inspiration; it was about the blue-collar labour of sitting in a chair and refusing to leave until the work was done.
“I disciplined myself to do it and get on with it,” Rabin says. That discipline led to a collection of tracks that are as eclectic as his career. One of the most striking moments on the record is "Oklahoma," a song that has been rattling around in his head since the early 90s.
The track is a slow-burn epic that carries a weight most modern rock songs avoid. It took nearly 30 years to move from a thought to a recording. Rabin remembers the exact moment the song took on its current meaning.
“Initially, when the idea came, it was just a germ,” Rabin says. The "germ" was a melody, but the purpose arrived with the horrific news of the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. Having become an American citizen just a few years prior, the event hit him with a visceral force.
“But when I saw the news about the Oklahoma bombing, my stomach disappeared,” Rabin says. At the time, he felt that releasing a song about the tragedy would be exploitative or too raw for the public to handle. He shelved it, letting it simmer in the back of his mind for decades.
“But it all came to fruition when I started doing the album,” Rabin adds. The distance of time allowed him to approach the subject with the necessary reverence. “Now, I can do it as a tribute to the people who were sadly involved.”
Visually, the album is just as idiosyncratic. Rabin opted for animation for most of the music videos, a move that feels both artistic and practical. He worked with a creator named Christian on the track "Push," and the results changed his perspective on how to market the music.
“Our time was limited, and I got some footage of what Christian had done on ‘Push,’ and I was kind of blown away,” Rabin shares. But there was also a personal reason for staying behind the scenes. When it came to the video for "Oklahoma," Rabin did not want his face to distract from the gravity of the lyrics.
“I just don’t want to be in it,” Rabin says. It is a rare bit of humility in an industry built on ego. He would rather the animation carry the emotional load than have a 68-year-old man singing to a camera about a national tragedy.
My son was conceived that night. Years later, Ryan named his daughter Rio.
The DIY ethos extends to the packaging. Rabin did not hire a high-priced design firm for the album cover; he did it himself. It turns out the guy can paint as well as he can shred. His mother was an artist and she ensured he had a brush in his hand almost as early as he had a guitar.
“My mother was an artist, and she got me into oil painting at an early age,” Rabin notes. While he was raised on the texture of oils and canvas, he eventually moved into the digital space, though the learning curve was steep.
“Once I got into it, it becomes really quite quick compared to doing it the other way,” Rabin says. It is a fitting metaphor for his entire career—taking a traditional foundation and accelerating it through technology.
When you listen to *Rio*, you are hearing a singular vision. Rabin is a notorious perfectionist who prefers to handle almost every instrument himself. He does not write a melody and then look for a band to fill in the blanks. He builds the entire world from the ground up.
“When I write a song, I always hear the whole thing,” Rabin says. This is the mindset of a composer rather than a songwriter. He is thinking about the frequency of the bass drum in relation to the shimmer of the cymbals before he even records a note.
“It’s like when I’m writing a film score or an orchestral piece; I’m not just writing a melody. I’m writing all the layers,” Rabin explains. This layered philosophy is why he often ends up playing every part. It is not that he does not like other musicians; it is just that he already knows exactly how the bass should sound.
“Sometimes I just thought to myself, well, I could get in a bass player to do this, but I’m just going to want him to do what I’ve just done, so why bother?” Rabin says. It is a fair point. If you can play like Trevor Rabin, why would you hire anyone else?
Still, he did allow a few trusted voices into his inner sanctum. His son, Ryan Rabin, served as a crucial sounding board. Ryan, an accomplished musician in his own right, helped Trevor experiment with unconventional sounds, including some percussive tricks that would make most producers cringe.
“My son Ryan was a sounding board for certain percussion elements,” Rabin says. One of those elements involved using his own body and instruments in ways they were not intended. “Instead of a tablet, I use my finger hitting an acoustic guitar. And it’s such a great sound, and I use that quite a lot.”
The album also features contributions from long-time collaborator Lou Molino and the legendary Vinnie Colaiuta. Having Colaiuta on your record is like having a nuclear reactor in your backyard—it provides a level of power and precision that is hard to replicate.
The title *Rio* is deeply personal, though it sounds like a nod to his global travels. It is named after his granddaughter, but the name carries a historical weight that dates back to a massive concert in Rio de Janeiro in 1985. Yes played to a crowd of half a million people, an experience that was literally life-altering.
“My son was conceived that night,” Rabin says, laughing. It is the kind of rock and roll trivia that you cannot make up. “Years later, Ryan named his daughter Rio.”
For the tech-obsessed, Rabin ensured the album was available in 5.1 surround sound. While most artists struggle with the spatial requirements of immersive audio, Rabin found it to be a walk in the park. After 50 films, he thinks in three dimensions.
“It was actually the record company’s idea. But the main thing for me is it wasn’t a new format to me with film. I’ve been working in 5.1 for the last 50 films, so it was just a natural thing for me, as natural as working in stereo,” Rabin shares.
The push to finally finish the album came largely from Ryan. Trevor had become so entrenched in the Hollywood machine that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be a frontman. The constant cycle of scripts and meetings had become a treadmill he could not get off.
“I just got to a point where, with the film thing, there’s always scripts to read, there’s people to meet. It’s just a constant thing,” Rabin says. Ryan saw the fatigue and knew his father needed a creative outlet that did not require a director’s approval.
“He was the one who said to me, you need to do another album,” Rabin says. The result is a record that feels both nostalgic and forward-looking. It is the sound of a man rediscovering his own voice after decades of helping others find theirs.
“It was a whole new, fresh experience, but something I hadn’t forgotten, which was also useful,” Rabin says. The experience of making *Rio* seems to have rejuvenated him, reminding him that he is more than just a guy who writes music for car chases and sports dramas.
Rabin’s history is inextricably linked to Yes, but he views that time with a healthy sense of humour. He knows that being in one of the world’s most famous prog-rock bands is an inherently absurd experience.
“I’ve been in some really comedic situations. After all, I played in Yes for 15 years,” Rabin says. That sense of perspective has allowed him to navigate the egos of Hollywood without losing his mind. He has scored everything from explosive action hits like *Con Air* to the tear-jerkers.
When asked about his favourite genre to work in, Rabin is quick to point out the dangers of being put in a box. In Hollywood, once you do a big action movie, that is all you get offered for five years.
“You do get typecast, and you’re always worried about that because it’s always good to go across genres. But I would have to say, my favorite would be the inspirational ones. ‘Remember the Titans’ was, I think, my finest score,” Rabin says.
His career has put him in rooms with the absolute titans of the industry. His stories about working with Michael Jackson are the stuff of legend. He describes the experience of entering Jackson’s world as something bordering on the divine, yet grounded in the technical demands of the craft.
“With Michael, I went into the studio and noticed there was every possible format of recording equipment,” Rabin recalls. The atmosphere was curated to be awe-inspiring. “And then the lights came down, and Michael walked in as if God had walked in. But he was a fantastic guy to work with. I’ll never forget the sound of him monitoring music so loud, louder than any live show I’d ever done.”
He holds a similar reverence for Tina Turner. Rabin has worked with the best of the best, but Turner’s vocal power left a permanent mark on him.
“She’s just the nicest person in the world. When I finally heard her voice on the tracks we worked on, I think she became my favorite singer,” Rabin shares.
These connections are not just trophies on a mantle; they are part of a larger, unfinished puzzle. Rabin almost did a full album with Supertramp’s Roger Hodgson, a collaboration that would have sent prog fans into a frenzy.
“Out of the blue, I got a call from Roger Hodgson,” Rabin explains. The two hit it off immediately, leading to a temporary living arrangement that was more "odd couple" than rock royalty. “A couple of weeks later, he arrived here in his RV, plugged into the house, and stayed here for two weeks. We had almost two-thirds of an album ready to go before life intervened.”
With *Rio* now in the hands of the public, the question is whether Rabin will take these songs on the road. He is 68, but he has the energy of a man half his age. There are talks of a tour that would blend his rock history with his cinematic present.
“A good friend of mine, Larry Magid, who’s promoted the last tour I was on, had recommended I go on the road and do my music and then have a screen behind me with a full orchestra to perform film scores as well,” Rabin reveals. It is an ambitious idea, but Rabin has never been one for small gestures. “It’s all stuff to be talked about.”
Ultimately, *Rio* is the sound of an artist who has found a way to balance his roots with his evolution. He is no longer the young gun trying to reinvent Yes, nor is he just the guy who scores the summer blockbuster. He is Trevor Rabin, and he is just getting started on his next act.
[519 Magazine Oct. 2023](http://519magazine.ca/519-magazine-october-2023-with-the-glorious-sons/)
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