Radiohead LANDMARK: Kid A by: Justin Pearsall Mon:19-Feb-07 Label: Parlophone Year: 2000 WB rating 92 out of 100

“Yesterday I woke up sucking on a lemon.”

Kid A is the aftermath. A chance for critics to clean out their pants after OK Computer sent them to cyberspace. It is a creative u-turn that no one was sure of. Where are the guitars? Now in the background; their place is taken by fuzzy keyboards, sampled kick drums and artificial vocals. Kid A is the soul of Thom Yorke wandering blindly, like a modern-day Oedipus, through the success that he has created. A world of chemistry sequences, dots and lines, zeroes and ones. It is the realisation of OK Computer’s premonition of a society gone mad.

‘Everything In Its Right Place’, Yorke rises and builds, circling and climbing until crescendo.  The swirl of melodies and fading buzzes tell us immediately that the old Radiohead are gone. Listening through headphones the angles appear. Layers stretch out and pop from unsuspecting corners. Where are we? How did we get here? Yorke is searching for stability and answers amongst the rabble.

“What is that you tried to say?” I break out in goose bumps bigger than mosquito bites.

In ‘Kid A’, it is as if Radiohead are recording underwater. Yorke’s voice, once the focal point, is altered beyond recognition and now simply blends as another instrument in the fold. Alluring and mysterious, Yorke echoes the Pied Piper leading the mob away: “The rats and children follow me out of their homes, come on kids.” his piper is persuading us to follow him down this murky road; a strange circus where “We’ve got heads on sticks” is the catchcry.

Fusion jazz and heavy metal bass, ‘The National Anthem’ is as big as its title. The resulting mess of frustration and terror are built to breaking point. Horns wail in a Bitches Brew, guitars sear and Yorke just loses it – “It’s holding on” – maybe. Clashing, repetitive, destructive, like speed and coffee, ad infinitum, ad nauseam, cathartic, ‘The National Anthem’ collides in an inevitable train wreck.

Now we ascend and the goose bumps are back again. ‘How To Disappear Completely’ is the ultimate exercise in wishful thinking: “Strobe lights and blown speakers/Fireworks and hurricanes/I'm not here”. Strings ebb and flow around Yorke as the shadows of oncoming waves grow more ominous. Angelic falsetto, like a god on your shoulder, leads us into the eye of the storm and away from the surrounding danger.

‘Treefingers’ is the antithesis of this danger and provides the intermission between the first and second acts. The scattered guitar wanderings of Ed O’Brien are bent and shaped to create a trance-like serenity. Radiohead are taking the very instrument that brought their success on The Bends and OK Computer and deconstructing it.

Slow-burning and weighty, ‘Optimistic’ finds Yorke cynical. Knee-deep in vultures, pigs and flies; he is just another member of the animal farm. Darwin told us that the “big fish eat the little ones” and Yorke is showing us that this is not simply a fact of history. The dinosaurs still roam the earth and whether you call them the bourgeoisie, the established gentry or the upper-class – with size comes power. Yorke’s ‘optimism’ is blunted by condolences: “I’d really like to help you, man” and sentences that all too often end with ‘but’.

‘In Limbo’ and at sea again, Radiohead are not denying the size of their own waves. When Yorke sings “I’m lost at sea”, it is easy to picture him alone on a dinghy, the surrounding swell engulfing him. The rolling guitar lines of Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood allow the nausea and panic of the song to rise and crash – filling the air with the sway of sea-sickness.

This turbulence continues on ‘Idioteque’, as heavy drum ’n’ bass influences drive the song and Radiohead move another step away from OK Computer. “This is really happening” ... the deceit of ‘How To Disappear Completely’ is gone. In its place is the realisation that Yorke is now too far down the rabbit hole to disappear completely. While it may seem noble to be letting the women and children out first, the question is what are they walking into?

“Cut the kids in half” answers any remaining questions. The organ refrain of the song feels like some misused gospel. Eerily, it grows to defiance and just as hope looks likely, in a heartbeat it is lost. The disembodied children are roaming with the Pied Piper through a bleak future and another ice age.

‘Motion Picture Soundtrack’ closes the journey. The entry of harp is quasi-religious and it is not hard to picture Yorke’s ascent, as he sings to us: “It’s not like the movies.” On a turbulent, challenging, and at times dark record, we are left with a wisp of optimism. Yorke now knows that even in the bleakest storm and impending waves there is liberation and second chances.

“I will see you in the next life.”