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The unbearable heaviness of being Radiohead continues.
Following the equivalent birth pains of a medium-sized galaxy, 'Kid A'
arrives amidst the most fantastic stories of artistic constipation: abortive
recording sessions, writer's block, band members wondering just what the
hell it was they were meant to be doing, Doomsday scenarios around every
corner. Seemingly overwhelmed by the exorbitant praise heaped upon 'OK
Computer', Radiohead elected to get in touch with their avant-garde side,
that time (dis)honoured escape clause in the white liberal rock star's
lexicon of How To Deal With Success. But although they might disavow the
process, Radiohead have been complicit in their own deification through
sheer aptitude. Now, predictably, in attempting to reinvent themselves
as a more elusive entity, they've made a record that by its mere existence
will only heighten the intrigue and intensify their global cult.
At least the rash of anaemic surrogates hurried along to quench the market's demand for overwrought introspection during the post-'OK Computer' hiatus are rendered in deservedly unforgiving perspective from the outset. 'Everything In Its Right Place' is a pointed opener - one fondly imagines Thom Yorke practising his most disdainful Mark E Smith sneer and muttering, "Notebooks out, plagiarists". A beautiful triumph of understatement, it bubbles forth upon tactile swathes of electric piano and Yorke's cut-up wordless vocals. When he does emerge from the deconstructivist frenzy, it's to scatter a bunch of gnomic phrases: "Yesterday I woke up sucking a lemon".
The trend intensifies with the title track, where Yorke is robotically distorted beyond recognition. With contrapuntal tinkling keyboards and suffocated beats, 'Kid A' the song, is the album's most self-consciously 'weird' moment, sub-Aphex Twin doodling that's pleasant enough but significant only because we know (and they know we know) it's been made by a multi-million unit-shifting rock band. Likewise, the larksome 'The National Anthem', where a seething bass groove descends into skronk nirvana featuring trombone and saxophone, Yorke again keening non-specifically on matters millennial ("Everyone has got the fear").
Were the entire record comprised of such wilful obfuscation,
then the perpetrators could be rightly accused of copping out completely,
but it seems Radiohead's instincts for the passionate grand gesture are
too strongly ingrained. 'How To Disappear Completely' heralds a return
to the big ballad template, as massed strings swoon and Yorke's voice soars
transcendentally for the first time, while 'Optimistic' is the cue to give
a plausible impression of a live rock band. Y'know, like featuring drums,
guitars - this group used to employ three of those, you may recall - and
a fully plugged-in singer declaiming apocalyptically about big fish eating
little ones. It's great, but lest anyone forget where much of Radiohead's
mid-'90s renaissance stemmed from, it sounds a lot like REM, specifically
'Monster'-period REM rewriting 'Country Feedback'. And this after a mid-album
ambient instrumental, another device fondly employed by the esteemed Athenians.
Thus far, 'Kid A' has provided stuff old, new, borrowed
and, as ever, blacker than blue. Without consistently engaging the heart,
this has been a cool experience. But hereafter, and one superlative song
aside, it rather loses its nerve. Of the remaining four tracks, 'In Limbo'
meanders nowhere particularly interesting, proving it takes more than a
tricky time signature to sustain a non-song. The edgy 'Morning Bell' is
much better, promising to rend the heavens with immolatory guitar, but
reining back just as it's really pushing out. And 'Motion Picture Soundtrack'
is a sorely anticlimactic closer, the kitchen sink arrangement singularly
failing to disguise the lack of anything substantial underneath.
It's the one track that stands furthest from one's expectations
of how Radiohead sound that represents the album's saving grace. Naff in
title and quite gauche in its stab at garage-noir, 'Idioteque' is a nonetheless
brilliantly persuasive two-step litany of paranoia, fear and unease. Yorke
sings it like he means it - "Women and children first/I laugh until my
head comes off/I've seen too much/You haven't seen enough/This is really
happening/Take the money and run" - and suddenly Radiohead's amorphous
external agenda assumes some kind of shape.
And here's the rub: for better or worse, Radiohead have always been about something, be it the loathing of self or the human condition in general, and the ramifications thereof. Yet it seems in a desire to quash the rampant air of significance suffusing their every movement and utterance, they've rather sold short the essence of their art. Yorke's presence is opaque - what better way for a reluctant generational spokesman to abdicate responsibility than by saying nothing much at all? Anyone who's seen the band live this year or pillaged the Internet realises there's songs recorded during the 'Kid A' sessions that are at least the equal of anything here. Now while these will presumably appear in some form in due course, their inclusion on this album would have made it an inestimably stronger work, broader in scope and more potent in impact. Who knows, maybe more fun to listen to.
But heaven forbid, that might mean even more outlandish
plaudits for the poor lambs to contend with. For all its feats of brinkmanship,
the patently magnificent construct called 'Kid A' betrays a band playing
one-handed just to prove they can, scared to commit itself emotionally.
And isn't that what this is supposedly all about?
7/10