Live: Barrowland, Glasgow
Jane Graham
Glasgow Herald, November 1, 1995

IF you don't already know, Oxford's Radiohead are the new darlings of the Rock'n'Roll Poets Society, which means they make abrasive heavy guitar rock (see highly acclaimed album The Bends), complain about how difficult modern life is for sensitive souls such as themselves, and are often photographed wandering contemplatively in fields with books under their arms.

Personally I don't think contemporary music is that hard up for intelligent lifeform, but I'm still open-minded about the big question -- can Radiohead rock?

Judging by last night's performance, they can, but only when they get rid of the horribly pompous, overblown approach they often take (like Suede with added histrionics, if you can imagine such a thing).

In general there's far too much po-faced posturing and not enough compassion in Radiohead's set, but there are notable exceptions. The fragile, trembling Sulk and the exquisite Fake Plastic Trees are both sensitively executed (even I wouldn't blame Radiohead for the lighters held aloft during the latter), and then there's what Radiohead are probably sick of being called their "anthem for a disaffected youth". Creep does its best to tug on adolescent heartstrings (are there any other kinds?) and it succeeds to an extent, though it would be more effective if it were not so self-consciously miserable, in the worst bedroom-ridden schoolboy manner.