In the fall of 2000 I was a sophomore at the University of Wisconsin. Me and my four roommates (Jill, Jill, Betsy, and Nick) were Radiohead fans. We had a giant Radiohead poster on the living room wall. Ok Computer and The Bends were in heavy rotation. And we were eagerly awaiting Radiohead’s new album, due that October.
It had been three years since Ok Computer and nobody knew what the hell Radiohead were up to. A few vague reports surfaced on internet message boards, and in tiny blurbs in Spin and Rolling Stone. Apparently they’d recorded with a jazz ensemble in New Orleans. And with a string orchestra. But none of the reports that I saw dampened my fervent hopes that they were about to drop anything other than Ok Computer Part 2, and I couldn't wait.
Ok Computer was transformative for me, expanding my conception of what music could be and what an album could accomplish. I had never heard anything like it: the chiming guitars, the compressed drums, the glitches and ambient noise, the creepy mellotron vocals. It was like Dorothy waking up in technicolor.
It’s difficult to convey to millennials, raised on Travis and Coldplay, just how revolutionary that album was at the time. The impact of any watershed moment in popular culture, whether it’s Sgt. Pepper or The Matrix, gets diluted by the legion of imitators that follow. Innovations breed imitation; originality becomes a cliche. But when it first hit shelves Ok Computer sounded like music from another universe.
One night in September, my friend Matt showed up at the door of my apartment, unannounced. We’d been listening to Radiohead since high school. In fact, I was with Matt the first time I ever heard Radiohead, when the video for “Paranoid Android” came on VH1 late one night, with cartoon bondage UN negotiators chopping their own legs off. That was a helluva introduction.
“Hey Pete,” he said, waving a blank CD in my face, “Do you want to hear the new Radiohead album?”
Kid A had leaked online, and Matt had burnt a copy. “Holy balls!” I grabbed the CD from him, marched to the living room stereo, and was about to fire it up, when my roommate Jill, overhearing the conversation, stopped me. “Wait, Pete. We want to hear this album too.”
The following fifteen minutes felt like an eternity, as my roommates summoned one another, gathered in the living room, deployed pillows and blankets on the floor, turned off the lights, lit candles, closed the curtains, poured wine, and settled in - this entire time with me in front of the stereo sighing audibly and bouncing impatiently from foot to foot, not unlike a child who has to pee but is told to wait for the bathroom.
Finally, we were ready. I hit play and curled up on the couch. The six of us listened to the entire album straight through, without saying a word. It was a nice moment, in hindsight the kind of moment that will (almost certainly) never happen again: surrounded by friends, each of us hearing for the first time this massively anticipated cultural artifact that was the focus of the world's attention.
I can’t remember their first impressions clearly. I think a few of them were blown away, but I was mystified. It definitely wasn’t Ok Computer Part 2. There weren’t any epic guitar solos or soaring vocals. I immediately liked “How To Disappear Completely”, though that high soft string tone in the background, like the hum of a broken refrigerator, was unsettling. And I loved “Motion Picture Soundtrack,” unreservedly, upon first listen. The rest of the album just confused me. I felt a bit “let down” (rimshot).
So when Kid A came out, a few weeks later, I didn’t buy it. My roommates did though, and it was in constant rotation in our apartment that fall. I probably heard it 40 times, without intending to. And a funny thing happened. It got stuck in my head. I’d find myself walking to class in the snow, humming “This is really happening, it’s happening!” Or “What was that you tried to say?” The album was catchy. It had earworms. I finally bought my own copy long after it came and out, and fell in love with it.
And I’ve never stopped listening to it. Even Ok Computer is kind of worn out for me. I’ve heard that album so many times that there are “no surprises” left (zing). I still love it, it’s genius, it’s easily in my top five albums of all time, and if pressed I would say it’s a better album than Kid A , and arguably the greatest rock album of all time. But I’m at the point where I only really need to listen to Ok Computer once per year. Kid A still feels fresh, and I keep the CD in my car in case my iPod dies because I am always in the mood to listen to it. It’s astonishing: that album is 20 years old but it could have been recorded yesterday. It sounds more contemporary than James Blake or Moses Sumney (artists whom I enjoy).
I never stopped hoping that Radiohead would release another rock album, and they sorta did, with In Rainbows. But every album they’ve done since has a few Kid A moments on it, for better (“Videotape”) or for worse (“The Gloaming”). I think they could have cut “The Gloaming” from Hail To The Thief, honestly, and improved the album.
I suppose I should talk about the book. It’s about Kid A. But it’s more about the buildup to the album, the way it was covered in the press when it first came out, the mixed reactions, and the cultural real estate it now occupies as a harbinger of our techno-dystopian, post-truth society.
I also read Your Favorite Band Sucks by the author and that was fun. Steven Hyden is similar to Chuck Klosterman, though Hyden is probably sick to death of that comparison the way Coldplay is sick of Radiohead comparisons, but while I dislike Coldplay I will read everything Steven Hyden ever writes if he keeps this streak up.
Here are some quotes:
“If Kid A rescued Radiohead from being known strictly as a ‘90s band, In Rainbows ensured that they would belong to multiple generations. The uniqueness of this achievement can’t be overstated. Virtually no other band from Radiohead’s peer group was able to pull it off. While there are fans of Pearl Jam, Sonic Youth, and R.E.M. from younger generations, it’s generally understood that those are Gen-X bands. Their classic work was released during a relatively concentrated period of time, usually over the course of a decade. For Radiohead, there’s a similar span of time between OK Computer and In Rainbows. And yet that decade, which straddles two centuries, also represents a very long bridge between two completely different eras. There was no guarantee that a twenty-one-year-old in 2007 was going to care about OK Computer and Kid A. But In Rainbows connected that person to those records.”
“When you heard Radiohead, you were reminded that no matter how cool you looked in shades and a leather jacket, or how entertained you were by watching VH1 for five hours straight, it would not make the world any less frightening. The whole point of their records was that there were no answers, because the beasts at the door were vicious and defiantly post-logic. No rational argument or stirring protest song was going to quell them . . . Radiohead ultimately made it impossible to buy into rock music as a viable means of salvation.”
“If you’re in a band that has spanned multiple decades, and even multiple centuries, you will have accumulated a past that stretches as far back as the future once seemed when you were young. Which is why, as you get older, you start to care less about where you’re going. Instead, you’re more interested in figuring out how you got where you are.”