chris squire basses

Ever seen a bass that growls like a lion in heat and sings like an angel who forgot to pay her rent? That, y’all, was no ordinary bass—it was the voice of Chris Squire basses, echoing through the corridors of prog-rock history like a psychedelic subway train with no brakes. We’re talkin’ about a man who didn’t just play notes—he carved frequencies into granite, slapped harmonics into orbit, and made the bass guitar a lead instrument without ever asking permission. Chris Squire, founding member of Yes, wasn’t just good—he was a freak of nature with a Rickenbacker slung low and a tone so distinct, you could ID it blindfolded in a hurricane. His sound? A sonic cocktail of grit, gloss, and god-tier precision. The man turned the humble bass into a cathedral of frequencies, and the world’s still trying to catch up.

Let’s talk about the six-stringed saint that defined a generation: the Rickenbacker 4001. Not just any bass—this was *the* Chris Squire basses holy grail. That semi-hollow body, those creamy necks, and that stereo output? Pure sorcery. Chris famously ditched the truss rod cover (’cause he was extra like that) and cranked both pickups to eleven, routing them through separate amps for a stereo sound that still gives engineers cold sweats. Folks in guitar shops still whisper about how he’d detune the E string just slightly, not for pitch, but “for vibe.” And that pick attack? Sharp as a Brooklyn winter. The Rickenbacker 4001 wasn’t just a tool—it was his co-pilot, his alter ego, his ride or die. Even today, when you hear that bright, chimey growl in “Roundabout” or “Heart of the Sunrise,” you’re hearing the ghost of Chris Squire basses haunting your speakers in the best way possible.

Now, don’t go thinkin’ Squire was a one-bass wonder. Nah, brother. While the Rick 4001 was his main squeeze, the man had a garage full of tone monsters. He flirted with a Fender Precision early on—classic, sure, but too polite for his tastes. Then came the custom Alembic models in the ’70s: walnut bodies, brass hardware, onboard preamps that cost more than your first car. Later, he even rolled with Yamaha and his own signature models like the Chris Squire Signature Bass by Rickenbacker (a love letter to his OG 4001 with modern tweaks). Each of these Chris Squire basses carried a piece of his evolving soul—whether he was noodling in the studio or melting faces on stage, the instrument always bent to his will, not the other way around.

Here’s a spicy truth: Chris Squire basses didn’t sound like that because of gear alone—they sounded like that because of him. Dude played with a pick, thick as a credit card, and always used Rotosound Swing Bass strings (roundwound, 45–105). That combo? Like dragging a chainsaw through velvet. But it wasn’t just aggression—it was control. He’d ghost-note like a jazz cat one moment, then unleash harmonic squeals the next. Engineers used to beg him to ease up; he’d just grin and hit it harder. His amp chain? Marshall JMPs, Hiwatt stacks, even Acoustic 361s—anything loud enough to rattle the fillings outta your teeth. The secret sauce? He treated the bass like a rhythm guitar, a lead violin, and a drum machine all at once. That’s why every Chris Squire basses tone feels like it’s breathing.

Before Chris Squire basses carved their path, the bass was mostly background furniture—thumpy, supportive, invisible. Squire said, “Nah, I’m leadin’ this parade.” In tracks like “The Fish (Schindleria Praematurus),” he didn’t just walk—he sprinted, leapt, and pirouetted across the fretboard like a caffeinated ballet dancer. His lines weren’t accompaniments; they were counter-melodies so intricate, they could’ve been violin solos. And the low end? Thick as pea soup, but never muddy. He’d split highs and lows into separate cabs, EQ ’em like a mad scientist, and boom—you got that signature “Squire stack” sound: crisp treble slicing through clouds of midrange fog while sub-bass rumbled like distant thunder. It wasn’t just innovative—it was revolutionary.

Let’s break it down: Chris Squire basses technique was less “slap and pop” and more “slap and detonate.” He used his pick like a scalpel—downstrokes for punch, upstrokes for shimmer—and his left hand? Pure sorcery. Hammer-ons, pull-offs, harmonics flung like confetti. He’d mute strings with his palm while simultaneously letting others ring out, creating this layered, orchestral texture that made solo bass passages sound like full bands. And don’t even get us started on his vibrato—it was wide, slow, and drenched in emotion, like a blues singer crooning at 3 a.m. His style wasn’t flashy for flashiness’ sake; every note served the song, but damn, did it serve with flair. When you hear those intricate runs in “Siberian Khatru,” you’re not just hearing bass—you’re hearing a language only Squire spoke fluently.

Chris Squire basses weren’t just studio pets—they were road warriors. That Rick 4001? Beat up, rewired, refinished more times than a ’68 Mustang, but never retired. He’d tour with backups, sure, but the main axe always came out. Why? Because it had soul. And that soul needed volume. On stage, his rig looked like a NASA control panel: multiple amps, custom cabs, rack units stacked like Jenga blocks. He once said in an interview, “If you can hear the vocals over my bass, I’m not loud enough”—and we believe him. The man turned stadiums into cathedrals of low-end worship, and every Chris Squire basses performance was a sermon in distortion and melody.

You can’t swing a dead cat in the prog world without hitting a bassist who cites Chris Squire basses as their north star. From Geddy Lee to Flea (yeah, Flea—look it up), the influence runs deep. Even non-prog players like Thundercat sneak in those harmonic squeals and trebly punch as homages. Modern builders like Dingwall and Mayones now offer “Squire-inspired” models with brighter woods and aggressive pickups, all chasing that chiming overdrive. But here’s the kicker: nobody’s nailed it. Because it wasn’t just the gear—it was the man. Still, every time a young bassist cranks a Rickenbacker through a cranked Marshall, they’re whispering a prayer to the ghost of Chris Squire basses, hoping a little of that lightning might strike twice.

Chris Squire wasn’t just a bassist—he was a founding father of Yes, a relentless perfectionist, and a gentleman with a wicked sense of humor. Offstage, he’d geek out over vintage gear, mentor young players, and argue passionately about tone for hours. Diagnosed with acute erythroid leukemia in 2015, he played his last show with Yes just months before passing on June 27, 2015. The music world dimmed that day. But his spirit lives on—in every ringing harmonic, every pick-driven run, every bass line that dares to lead. When people ask, “Was Chris Squire a good bass player?” we just laugh. Good? He redefined what the instrument could do. His Chris Squire basses weren’t tools—they were extensions of his very being.

Wanna sound like Chris Squire basses on a budget? Start with attitude. Grab a Rickenbacker-style bass (Eastwood, Jay Turser, even a Squier Precision with a bridge pickup mod). String it with Rotosound Swing Bass. Play with a thick pick—celluloid, tortoiseshell, whatever feels right. Crank two amps: one clean, one slightly overdriven. Pan them hard left and right if you’re recording. And for Pete’s sake, don’t be shy—dig in like your rent depends on it. Study “The Fish,” loop “Heart of the Sunrise,” and feel how his lines breathe with the drums. Want more? Dive into the archives at Giovanni Di Domenico, explore our gear deep dives in Instruments, or geek out over another bass legend in our piece on Geezer Butler Basses Top Gear Guide Now. The tone’s out there—you just gotta reach for it.

References

• www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/chris-squire-yes-bassist-dead-at-67-98342
• www.bassplayer.com/artists/chris-squire-yes
• www.guitarworld.com/artists/how-chris-squire-created-his-legendary-bass-tone
• www.progarchives.com/artist.asp?id=5