There there.

Been listening to a lot of Radiohead lately, in light of finally listening, and more importantly, "getting" their latest album, Hail to the Thief. My verdict is: it's good. Not nearly the brilliant, life-changing, balls-to-the-wall, saviors-of-rock album that everyone is claiming it is, but it's not bad. I think the thing that attracts me to this album is the fact that it's more emotionally immediate than anything Radiohead has done in a long time.

For me, the holy trifecta of Radiohead listening encompasses The Bends, OK Computer, and Kid A. Why? Emotional impact, and songwriting.

The Bends was and is, quite simply, a masterpiece. It remains the one of three or four albums that I can listen to indefinitely and not get bored. It's unusual for an album to completely hold my attention, but this one does. This thing just kills me, in all the best ways. "Planet Telex," the opener, is quite possible one of the most eminently listenable and perfectly written songs I've ever heard. Beginning on a rush of ambient noise, the song quickly phases in heavily-reverbed keyboard chords until the guitars come in and front man Thom Yorke begins singing "You can force it, but it will not come/You can taste it, but it will not form..." and eventually working his way into the chorus: "Everything is broken/Everyone is broken." For me, the whole song is about how no matter how much we try to force our way into relationships, into love, we are always going to have to deal with our own shortsightedness, as well as the shortsightedness of those we love, as well as the shortsightedness of those that they loved before us. In this way, "everyone is broken," and we are constantly having to deal with past scars left by others in our present relationships. By the time Yorke gets around to singing "Why can't you forget?" in a sulky voice, the point of the song is made, and the song quickly retracts back into the keyboard motif, adding a slightly morose guitar line before fading out completely. A perfectly uncertain ending to the perfectly uncertain territory of relationships.

The next high point for me would probably be "Fake Plastic Trees." The lyrics take a narrative tone here, relating the story of several people who are having trouble simply being themselves, either due to internally placed pressure or external pressures. The song is built on gently strummed acoustic guitars with some synthesized strings for backing, and Yorke's pretty falsetto perfectly conveys the couple's sense of longing, the longing for something real in a world full of fake plastic trees. The song climaxes beautifully as Yorke turns the focus on himself in what has to be one of the most intensely personal and goosebump-raising moments in the history of pop music. The guitars begin to roar, and Yorke's voice takes on a desperate urgency as he sings "But I can't help the feeling/I could blow through the ceiling/If I just turn and run..." The song begins soaring on an ascending guitar line, as if Yorke is trying to form his wings just long enough to escape the gravity of this black hole relationship, and then just like that, the song blows out, leaving him stranded, "And it wears me out," he tiredly concedes. Then, in the saddest twist of all, Yorke sings "If I could be who you wanted all the time..." in a cracked, defeated voice, slamming home the point of the song more effectively than all the roaring guitars in the world.

OK Computer, while decidedly short of such chill-inducing moments, nevertheless had several shining moments that cut through the post-modern paranoia and stood as truly emotional and impacting, although those terms are perhaps ill-used. Unlike The Bends, however, most of the songs on OK Computer worked precisely because they were the antithesis of Radiohead's previous emotional balladry: these songs worked because they were detached and apathetic, perfectly in relation with the technological, impersonal themes of 20th century life that pervaded the album.

The first of these moments occurs in the song "Let Down," a pretty, circular ballad built on the premise that though technology is improving the quality of life, it's not improving us. It fits in well with the album thematically, but still manages to stand out simply because it focuses on the people involved rather than the technology, thus creating sympathy. The use of twinkling electronics stands in direct opposition to the lyrics: while one seems to imply a blissful, candy-colored, homogenous life, the lyrics brutally describe the effects of this reality on us: "Shell smashed/Juices flowing/Wings twitch/Legs are going..." The song ties in nearly perfectly with the other shining moment on the disc, the dreamy suicide ballad "No Surprises." Yorke sounds bone-weary on these tracks, detailing the toll of it all on his soul, "a heart that's full up like a landfill." His weariness is genuinely affecting, simply wanting an end to it all, that's undramatic, something with "no alarms and no surprises."

Kid A would probably, for me, be the high point of my Radiohead listening. It's a beautiful record, defiantly unlistenable while somehow being extremely accessible. On Kid A, both types of emotional involvement are present. "Idioteque" is a masterpiece of paranoid detachment, computer beats and sparse keyboard hits slamming down around Yorke as he mutters to himself, wandering a jagged and forbidding landscape. In this case, the paranoid themes of OK Computer are amped up to a nearly fever pitch, resulting in an Orwellian scenario where we are shuffled back and forth like so many cattle in a chute. Even though Yorke sings about laughing until his head comes off, and finally being "alive," it doesn't sound like good thing.

"Motion Picture Soundtrack" takes the opposite route, engaging the listener with the first conventional melody on the entire album and likewise with the first glimpse of hope in the twisted territory of this stunning album. Harps swell around Yorke as he tells a significant someone that he'll see them in the afterlife. It's really the most perfect ending I could have hoped for, managing to offer a respite from the unrelenting darkness of the album while not sounding terribly out of place.

What does all this have to do with Hail to the Thief?

The emotional core of Hail to the Thief would most likely be "There there," a glorious slice of anthemic pop that eschews a chorus completely. The song is the probably closest return to the emotional directness of The Bends that the band has recorded. "Just because you feel it/Doesn't mean it's there," Yorke sings over pounding drums and a discordant guitar riff, echoing some of the main points made on The Bends, though it was written nearly a decade ago (8 years or so, actually): we are constantly dealing with the remains that others leave behind. Just because you feel a certain way, doesn't mean that's the way it is. Everything is broken, everyone is broken. Why can't you forget?

I think the whole point of Radiohead's career can so far be summed up in a single line printed at the end of The Bends' lyric sheet. It's similar to the point that Joy Division tried to hammer home in many of their songs, including "Transmission" and the wholly wonderful "Atmosphere": life's too short for these petty things to drag us down. It's the people around us that really matter, and we should never walk away in silence. We should take the time to be with those we love, even if it's just dancing to the radio.

.iMMersE your soUL in LOVE.

Blue Monday

"God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of his own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players,* to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time."

*i.e., everybody.

-Neil Gaiman/Terry Pratchett, Good Omens

Yesterday sucked. More to come later.

Suddenly Everything Has Changed

I’m sure everyone has them: those sudden moments in life when something just hits you. It could be something unrelated to what you’re doing, something mundane, and this thought comes slamming into your head, totally unbidden.

I had one of those moments yesterday.

I was sitting in my kitchen, looking at this bottle of thyroid medication, and the sudden thought slams into my head: you’re going to be taking this for the rest of your life.

For those of you who don’t know, the few people I don’t talk to regularly enough to know this, this last week I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism, a condition which is a precursor to diabetes and fibromyalgia. I’ve had it for at least five years, and probably closer to 10, but it stayed unnoticed until my last physical, in which I had some blood work done.

It’s kind of weird to think that I have this condition, and have had it for some time, simply because it hasn’t slowed down or even affected my life thus far. When I was told that I would have to take medication to make me “feel better” (a catch-all phrase), I kind of had to laugh, because I hadn’t felt bad in the first place.

Lately I’ve been listening to two songs over and over, The Postal Service’s cover of “Suddenly Everything Has Changed” (by The Flaming Lips, off their wonderful The Soft Bulletin ) and track 2 of the first single ("Untitled 1," or "Vaka") from Sigur Ros’ recently released album, () .

The Postal Service cover is fantastic, Ben Gibbard’s frail voice perfectly matching the melancholy lyrics, while Jimmy Tamborello’s spacious arrangement gives the song a much-needed depth and a sense of mystery. While the original song was upbeat, The Postal Service turns it into a beautifully spooky meditation on the strangeness of life in general and pinpointing several of those moments when we realize that “suddenly everything has changed.”

The Sigur Ros piece is a bit different. It’s an ambient, barely-there, wisp of a song that has little to no structure or form, save for a series of chords that repeat seemingly at random. Bits of vocal loops and ambience flutter through the track like the whispers of angels before muted brass slips in and Jonsi begins to sing, his voice soaring like motes of dust caught in a sunbeam. The effect is stunning, evoking a hushed reverence that is breathtaking.

I’ve heard it said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. I never really understood what this meant until I began writing reviews. When you come upon a song or piece that you love so much that it actually hurts, you truly begin to understand. That’s what great art is all about: it strips you of everything, leaving you naked, defenseless, vulnerable. If it doesn’t do that, it’s not good art. You wouldn’t believe how much time I spent writing that last paragraph. What I wrote was a fairly dry description, one man’s attempt to put into words a myriad of feelings and emotions. I will say this: the song tore me to pieces, plain and simple.

Not much else to say. I usually say "more to come later," or something like that, and then don't end up writing for a week or two. I'm not going to do that this time (or my regular playlist), instead opting for something a little different. I want those of you that read this to email me with some songs that tear you to pieces, and why. My email address is rarnow@aol.com. I look forward to hearing from you.