By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
The prop plane circled the ballpark, trailing the type of banner you might also see at the beach. The message, though, was not what you usually see at Dodger Stadium. "Radiohead Amnesiac" it read, orbiting lazily in the afternoon heat. The guy beside me looked up and pondered. "I wonder who they think their audience is," he said.
"You and what army," I should have answered. A quick summary before the plane runs out of fuel: In 1997 Radiohead issued OK Computer, a panoramic wall of datapanik that critiqued new tech through dazzling use of some very old technologyelectric guitars. They sold about 1.5 million U.S. copies, influenced indie rockers and turntablistas and a few brave rappers, made a documentary where they begged the world to go away like they were vampires melting in the sunlight. And then they really freaked out. Last year they released Kid A, which, besides having really bad cover art, freaked out Radiohead's fanswith basically no guitars, no science-fiction narratives, and plenty of emergency-room blips that sounded creepy, downsized, evasive. Radiohead came back from success by basically turning into another band. The whole record arrived as a statement about what they were not (rockers or pop stars), and what they would not do (tour, advertise, do interviews, shoot videos, enjoy themselves). Kid Aconfused everyone and sold about 800,000 U.S. copies. Most important, with Thom Yorke ready to spontaneously combust, Kid Achewed out some negative space, turned down the buzz, and let them get on with making music.
The shock is that what the reaction to Kid Agave them the courage to do after allbesides reach out to their audience with interviews, videos, and airplaneswas release a better Kid A. Or maybe that should be said another way. Kid Aintroduced us to their new intentions, and what a year ago seemed like a gesture now sounds likehey!Music. Amnesiac's songs are taken from the very same sessions that produced Kid A, and the basic outline is the same: verse-chorus song structures only when the mood hits, texture as important as melody, and all over the place the same electronic poptonesthe sound of dead brain cells bouncing down an incandescent hospital stairway. Where Kid Acouldn't help but be seen as a reaction to fame and intense scrutiny, Amnesiacilluminates what Radiohead are now, and will likely be for a long time: an evasive, willfully experimental rock band who feel uncomfortable in their own skins.
Which isn't to say that there aren't some subtle distinctions between the two records. If Kid A's songs seem rooted in a pitched battle over the future, Amnesiac's feel recorded the moment after. The songs are obsessed with achieving a sense of peace, a release from a world that's power mad, polluted, and obsessed with technology. Amnesiacfeels like the first post-WTO record, its antiglobalism so deep at the core of the music that it feels intuitive. This should be no surprise from a band that has plugged Naomi Klein's No Logofrom the stage, and a singer who has spoken out for third-world debt forgiveness. Where the end-of-the-world dread was once framed in slightly corny sci-fi narratives, it now just is. Events have conspired to make this music mean moreevents and symbols, like the black-clad messengers marching down urban centers all over the world, trashing McDonald's and questioning globalism. And the music has changed too, and I bet will continue to change for records to come. They are wrestling with a sound that eschews tension and release, and instead mimics processesdecay, disruption, memory.
Yorke is a particularly English sort of social critic: Even when he's singing about the end of the world, his words are modestly few. "While you make pretty speeches/I'm being cut to shreds," he croons on "Like Spinning Plates," and that's about as direct as he gets; he doesn't trust pols ("You and What Army" has been described as a slap at Tony Blair), but even less does he trust the confessional mode. So how he conveys his themes ends up a little round-the-way, a strange strategy when your subjects include the heat death of the universe. Except maybe it's not a strategy after all. It's just him.
He's stubborn in a passive kind of way. Last year he drove journalists crazy by refusing to answer questions except through odd, shattered online dispatches; the truly twisted thing about this was that driving journalists crazy didn't even seem to provide much pleasure. Thom doesn't know from fun. He doesn't seem to get pleasure, either, from telling Radiohead fans in "Knives Out" that guitars are never to fully return. "I want you to know/He's not coming back/He's bloated and frozen," he sings at half the tempo the band is playing. But then: "Still there's no point in letting it go to waste."
And the rest of the band? They hang with him. Yorke once described his relations with his bandmates as akin to the UN, where he's the United States. He's a behemoth more equal than others, but if the other guys have strong feelings about that, they hide them well. They hide themselves well, too, when the music requires itdrummer Phil Selway replaced by a hard drive in one cut, reemerging on "Pyramid Song" with a head-bobbing full trap set flourish. These UN delegates craft a sound that takes in the stubbornly passive techno of the Warp label and folk-rock as embraced by R.E.M. and Sigur Rós, a sound that wants to embrace '60s big-band jazz but doesn't quite know how"Life in a Glass House" is like Mingus produced by George Martin, a great way to end the record.