It’s
difficult to be impartial when your favourite band of the last seven years
releases something new and essential. I won’t feign objectivity; this will be
an unapologetically partisan first impressions, not a proper criticism.
Considering The King of Limbs represents, in retrospect, an oblique
experiment rather than a substantial release, A Moon Shaped Pool is
positively seminal in its relationship with not only Radiohead fans, but with the general
music zeitgeist; especially since, as Alexis Petridis observes in his Guardian
review[i],
the cosmos of truly colossal albums now seems exclusive to Hip Hop and R&B. It’s
not ludicrous to suggest that Radiohead are perhaps the only Rock band who
could impact the pop culture Richter Scale as intensively as Beyonce, Kendrick
or Kanye. Nine years is a long time to remain as insular as they have. And now
they’re back.
The
opener ‘Burn the Witch,’ recently released as the lead single accompanied by a
bizarre stop-motion reworking of The Wicker Man, delicately washes over
you as quintessential Radiohead; the awesome concord between the unnerving and
the beautiful. Its strings are operatic, zealous, menacingly persistent, but
disquietingly handsome, built like the cold magnetism of a nameless model on a
thirty foot billboard. ‘Burn the Witch’s’ aesthetic minimalism betrays its
obvious complexity, an illusion symptomatic of the record. Whether it’s the
chameleonic stratums of ‘Daydreaming,’ – the most Kid A-lite track –
propelled by cryptic bleeps, acquiescent groans and an inveterate piano
backbone, or the veritable tempest of conflicting, symphonic sound that is the centrepiece
‘Ful Stop,’ A Moon flourishes in its delicately layered
sonispheres.
Yorke’s
cadence – often mockingly reduced to inscrutable dourness – operates on its own
ethereal plane. Cascading from wailing banshee to phantasmagorical whisper, he
visually champions the beatific discord. Additionally A Moon is
arguably Radiohead’s most vocal-centric, and most syntactically diverse, record
to date. Beyond the now accepted distorted sighs which heave in the background,
Yorke’s vocal range remains Radiohead’s most vital instrument, transcending
elongated moans into glorious climax, or unintelligible vowels into convincing
affect with the wisp of a key change. He’s not alone. The choir boy sample in
‘Decks Dark’ elevates glum introspection into such serenity which Yorke cannot
reach; indeed, across the record there are frequent relapses into the angelic. The emotional uplift is not ignored.
Lyrically,
they even sound… hopeful? Affirming? Yes, and no. The crooning sentiment of
‘Desert Island Disk’ is that “Different types of love/are possible,” while the
assertive refrain of ‘The Numbers’ emphasises that “The future is in
ourselves/it is nowhere else,” and that it’s our prerogative to “take back what
is ours” and maintain our innate individualism. Elusive echoes proffering to
“avoid all eye contact/do not react” and that “dreamers/they never learn”
hypothesised in ‘Burn the Witch’ and ‘Daydreamers’ respectively register as the
inverse, a nihilistic resignation to the tedium of social norms. The clanging command “Don’t get heavy, keep it light,” from ‘Present Tense’ sounds
resoundingly ironic from a band notorious for their solemn and overtly
political discography. Has it all been a laboured, twenty year joke? Maybe.
When he comments “Hey, it’s me,” it’s practically impossible to imagine Yorke
without a cathartic, knowing grin. If this weaving of cynicism and validation
is incongruous and indefinable, then it’s because of course it is; it’s fucking
Radiohead. If their career polemic says anything, it’s that paradox is never
disingenuous; it’s our most natural state, a state of anxiety and ambiguity. A
Moon is sagging with meaning, and significance, and feeling, but it’s
entirely interpretable. Ambiguity breeds personal investment.
Optimism
and pessimism, new and old: dichotomies overcast the record. ‘Burn the Witch’ was
written in 1999, while ‘True Love Waits,’ nebulously extracted from their live
recordings collection I Might Be Wrong (2001) and conceived in
1995 during The Bends, has discarded the acoustic guitars for haunting pianos overdubbed on one
another. It’s never quite exactingly melodic, and it never goes where you
expect and especially want it to; much like the relationship it describes. Its
very musicality rebounds Yorke’s despondency, stirring one of the most shattering,
heartrending, brilliant love songs of the last thirty years into something
intangibly more moving. 21 years and it hasn’t aged a day. The new/old paradigm
prevails equally in their sound. The soaring drifts of ‘Glass Eyes’ marries the
languid frenzy established in The King of Limbs with Jonny Greenwood’s –
now a film composer with serious pedigree – precise control over the string movements. ‘Present
Tense’ is the most pertinent collaboration between the ontology of their
musical sensibilities; the frothy percussion of OK Computer, the
sneeringly casual guitarwork of In Rainbows, the mellifluous orchestral
arrangement of Hail to the Thief, the distant vocal ticks of Kid A.
A Moon is a time capsule, elegiacally transient yet
immutably enduring.
It’ll
take weeks, months, years before I, and everyone else, can properly digest A
Moon Shaped Pool, but it’s assuredly Radiohead at their peak, and assuredly
a tumultuous portfolio of their accomplishments. A lurid amalgamation of
new and old, an ostensible Best Of compilation – sonically as well as
chronological – that cogently clicks as a collective. It is, bluntly, magnificent. I’ve waited over a third
of my life for a Great Radiohead album. It’s here, and it's worth it.
***PLZ
also listen to ANOHNI – Hopelessness. It’s unfortunate that the two best albums
of the year so far released within two days of each other.***
[i] Something
this dense should not be consumed and reviewed so prematurely though, otherwise
resulting in critical indigestion.
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