Radiohead
Tivoli, Barcelona
15 June 2000
 

ìFuck off!  Fuck off!î  Thom Yorke yells mid-soundcheck at the stormclouds rolling over from the lush Provence hills above Vaison La Romaine.  Deeply stricken new song How To Disappear has just been essayed as lightning forks danced closer towards tonightís Roman amphitheatre venue.
 ìAlright, letís do Talk Show Host quickly,î he resumes.  But from the off, sheet rain batters the uncovered stage, soon cascading down the arenaís granite tiers.  The band exits rapidly.  On this mini-tour of Mediterranean beauty spots ñ conceived partly as a holiday, partly to help dispel the irritating weight of The Future Of Rock from their shoulders ñ theyíre doing things defiantly differently, but not dangerously.
 After an emergency meeting, Yorke returns to the catering area, a finger-across-throat signal resignedly indicating cancellation.  ìWe really donít have a choice,î he mutters.
 Last nightís opening show at nearby Arles, despite eventually going ahead, had been bookended by smaller downpours.  Today, though, the whole region is instantly submerged in a violent flash-flood that kills power and turns roads to rivers.  Rain down, indeed.
 ìWeíre like that car in the Wacky Races that had a stormcloud over it everywhere it went,î guitarist Ed OíBrien muses.
 When Radiohead go Club Med, even the Med turns doomy.

ìOn day one in France, the first interviewer got in his first question,î OíBrien says the following day, after playing dry Barcelonaís roofed Tivoli Opera House.  ìHe just goes, [adopts tone of Gallic vituperance] So... why ëave you not split up?  And thatís right, really.  Why havenít we?î
 The answer is long, complex and inextricably bound up in the music unveiled earlier this evening.  Only through these extraordinary new songs did Radiohead overcome existence-threatening disillusionment with enormodome anthemry.
 ìWe almost split up three or four times,î OíBrien confirms.  ìWe just thought, Whatís the point in doing the same thing all over again?î
 Superficially, itís the same band from 1998 that ñ before a reverently seated audience ñ breaks into an opening Talk Show Host.  Noisemaker-in-chief Jonny Greenwood still looks heroically busy; OíBrien still looks as if heís bought a guitar several sizes too small; Yorke still does his best Ian Curtis impression in Bones.
 From the third song in, though, itís clear Radiohead have taken another creative leap, perhaps even greater than that from The Bends to OK Computer.  Optimisticís searing voodoo groove suggests, bizarrely, Nick Caveís Bad Seeds recasting Blind Faithís Canít Find My Way Home.  But, like the other new additions, itís familiar only in the sense of something half-glimpsed during a disorientating dream.
 After an incandescent Karma Police, Yorke exuberantly surveys his velvety surroundings.  ìEver get the feeling youíre in a film?  Popcorn will be served in a half an hour!î  he exclaims before adding, comically, ìRock!î
 Based around Yorkeís free-floating Rhodes keyboard chords and drummer Phil Selwayís (newly central, along with bassist Colin Greenwood) stuttering accompaniment, Morning Bell highlights how, where last time they overcame the guitarsí limitations by treating them beyond recognition, this time theyíve overcome the guitarsí limitations by, well, not playing them.
 ìI remember coming into the studio one day,î says Selway later, ìseeing Ed actually holding a guitar and thinking, Ooh, thatís strange.  Theyíre on there, but not that much.
 How To Disappear follows, itís name taken from a self-help book for people wanting to run away and establish new identities.  A ghostly waltz-time folk song redolent of The Smithsí Meat Is Murder, it again sees verses and choruses supplanted by circling fragments that feel less tragic opera than magic incarnation.
 Jonny Greenwood scrambles around on the floor as if heís lost something.  ìEverything was breaking down,î OíBrien explains later.  ìI think he got the soldering iron out at one point.î
 Street Spirit follows, its instinctive momentum helpfully indicating a jumping-off point for this new dynamic.  Next, National Anthem sees a gloriously fuzzed-up groove vying with Yorkeís totalitarian yelping.  It could be Nirvana circa In Utero attempting funky exotica.  The recorded version apparently ends with a cacophony of brass.  Itís going to be strange.
 The following greatest hits selection (including My Iron Lung, Lucky and No Surprises) is punctuated with Knives Out.  With their trademark three-guitar assault jangling around a chord sequence that refuses to settle, it resembles a mortally panicked Byrds.
 The metropolitan pulse of set closer Everything In Its Right Place, very bizarrely, recalls Joe Jacksonís Stepping Out.  His climactic croon having been sampled and looped by an ever-tinkering Jonny Greenwood, Yorke gets up from the Rhodes and ambles across to sit at the edge of the stage.  Then, suddenly, he jumps off, sprinting right down the central aisle and off out the back exit.

Supping vodkas in the balmy wee hours at a bar off Las Ramblas, OíBrien and Selway reveal that the next albumís final cut will see 11 tracks (chosen from 26) running to a concise 45 minutes.  ìAlbum Number One is finished,î Selway confirms, rather enigmatically.
 Pushed on a definite title and whether the remaining tracks will form Album Number Two, both clam up.
 ìWe want those other songs to be heard.  Thatís all weíre saying,î OíBrien concludes.  ìWe definitely want to have some fun with them.î
 Leaving tonightís venue, he and Yorke had practically thrown themselves at the waiting autograph-hungry fans.  Theyíre obviously happy to be back but are determined to make it different.  Indeed, their forthcoming big tent tour is a subtly subversive way of throwing out the rule book.  Hinting at the groupís current fixation with Naomi Kleinís anti-corporate treatise No Logo, OíBrien explains, ìItís about controlling our environment.  Itíll be good to get to play somewhere that isnít covered in logos.î
 After months that included much floundering, endless re-recording and a Beta Band phase, the band has apparently learnt how to relax.  So when did you finally realise the worth of what you had?
 ìAbout a week ago,î OíBrien admits.

ìThey found me and dragged me back in,î Yorke claims, returning to the stage for four songs ñ Just, Egyptian Song, Lurgee, Paranoid Android ñ from each of their four periods.  The latterís finale underlines exactly how much of a brilliant dead-end OK Computer actually was: every second so caught up in its own greatness that it ultimately felt strangely self-sealing, airless even.  ìOK Computer really was pretty indigestible,î Selway concurs.
 That albumís ornate desolation has, then, been replaced by a warmly organic darkness that naturally defies conventional labelling.  Lyrically, too, the ìyuppies networkingî have been discarded for stark, sparing lines seemingly grabbed from unconscious depths.  Electronically enhanced reveries for an emotionally blasted age, anyone?
 ìIím still getting my head around the lyrics,î OíBrien admits.  ìThom usually talks about them... he didnít this time.î
 These are clearly people who still love themselves considerably less than they love music.  Revealing this most fully is the currently (though not finally) titled Egyptian Song ñ on tonightís evidence the new albumís flickering centrepiece.  Beginning with Yorke murmuring hushedly over just three awkwardly juddering, repeated piano chords, it slowly swells into a strange mantra that continually assures, ìThere was nothing to fear and nothing to doubtî.  Itís spooky, resonant and awesome.
 Back in 1993, Michael Stipe was moved to declare, ìRadiohead are so good they scare me.î  Tonight, heíd be downright petrified.

Many thanks to Matt Smother for typing this up!

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