Radiohead & guests
South Park
Oxford
July 7, 2001

What’s that you say? The only mainland UK appearance of the year by Radiohead? At a sold-out mini-festival in their hometown of Oxford? With proceeds going to various good causes as well? With my reputation? Blimey.

Yes, tonight was always going to be special. In my wildest dreams I’d never have been able to predict just how special, though: how tired, emotionally-drained and… well, wet I’d be when we finally re-boarded the coach for the long return journey to Leeds. I’d never have been able to foresee that the mere thought of the show a full month later would induce goosebumps. Tonight was one of those all-too-rare “where were you when…?” moments in modern music: a show you’d boast about attending for years to come.

We arrive at the site at 11:00 a.m. – no mean feat considering the navigational skills of our coach driver, who insisted on frightening the elderly residents of a local cul-de-sac by attempting a three-point turn with just inches to spare after yet another wrong turn. But after taking the ‘scenic route’ through Oxford city centre we finally stumble upon some signs for South Park, and with a sigh of relief we get off the coach.

We face an hour’s wait until the gates are opened at midday, but when they finally are I’m ‘treated’ to bizarre flashbacks of the Manic Millennium. Hundreds of fans, myself included, enrage the security staff by sprinting full-pelt towards the front of the stage in a bid to gain access to the fenced-off area. Evading various 7-foot-tall Neanderthal types in fluorescent jackets we manage to obtain a pair of those hallowed blue wristbands before heading off to buy some merchandise. Twenty-pounds less well-off (I mean, really: Radiohead call themselves anti-capitalists ?), I decide to try and find friend and fellow BF hack Sal… only to discover via the wonder of text messaging that she’s stuck in traffic on the A40. “Typical”, I thought, and headed back into the fenced-off area…

...where we wait, and wait, and wait. Finally the first band appear to a (frankly hilarious) spoof of "Fitter Happier": “Wheatus can fuck off…” being the only line I can remember. I saw them described afterwards on the hallowed Farm messageboard as a cross between Mogwai and …Trail Of Dead, but as a big fan of both bands I’m afraid I have to put my foot down. They weren’t actually that bad, to be honest, but there was none of the sheer brilliance of our Texan allies or their Scottish counterparts on display. Given time and experience? Hmm, maybe. They were certainly better than the second band, who plugged some inoffensive indie-lite stuff for half an hour or so before wandering off and leaving me half-asleep. It was a good idea of Radiohead’s to have a couple of unknown local bands on the bill, but before long it became a bit like being stranded alone at the second stage of a Belgian festival. Forever.

Fortunately Hump appear and proceed to entertain the crowd as though it was going out of fashion. OK, so perhaps the brilliant reception the crowd gave them had more than a little to do with Humphrey Lyttelton’s guest appearance on Amnesiac: but, as I later remarked to Sal, you wouldn’t see die-hard fans at a Manics concert throwing indie snobbery out of the window and dancing around to a jazz quintet support band, would you?

Next up, Sigur Ros. Well, out of interest I’d read Charlie Wise’s live review on this very site a while before the festival. And, cynical fool that I am, I thought “they can’t be that good”. In my defence, I was right: but they came close enough for me to feel suitably chastened. I thought they were brilliant, despite not knowing any of their songs or owning any of their albums: something I shall, rest assured, rectify as soon as possible. Sadly not everyone was prepared to listen, and often inane chatter was more audible than the band during the quiet-before-the-storm bits (just fucking shut up or stay at home next time, OK ?).

Still, the scally faction of the crowd who’d mosh to the sound of a roadie breaking wind on a snare-drum didn’t have long to wait. Yes, it’s Supergrass. Sadly, at the time of writing this review, I don’t have the energy or bile to do my absolute hatred of them justice. I don’t know quite why, but words simply cannot describe how passionately I loathe this band. Perhaps it’s the lumpen indie-rock tunes or the meaningless, shit lyricism. Perhaps it’s Mickey’s God-awful backing vocals and dull, pounding basslines. Or perhaps it’s Gaz’s achingly hackneyed rock poses. Whatever the hell it is, venom flows through my veins whilst they’re on and I’m left to dream of napalming the stage during their over-long set.

After that debacle, Beck could only be an improvement. But that shouldn’t detract from the fact that he was pretty good in his own right, really. Loser aside, I’ve never been much of a fan, but tonight’s ‘acoustic’ set (I presume the electric guitars were figments of my imagination) was pretty eye-opening. A brief shower mid-set prompts him to grin “I feel really guilty about not being out there in the rain with you guys”, before improvising a mouth-organ solo to “cheer us all up”. And that alone is reason enough to love him, for tonight at least.

By the time the onstage lights are dimmed for the last time and Radiohead finally take to the stage, we’ve been standing up for at least six straight hours. But as Thom, Jonny, Colin, Ed and Phil literally sprint onto the stage and crash into a searing rendition of "The National Anthem", aching backs and tired legs are forgotten in an instant. Thom is vicious, buoyant, animated. Colin shakes his head energetically as his younger brother twitches spasmodically stage-left and a grinning Phil provides a typically solid drum backing whilst never breaking a sweat. Ed, meanwhile, looks… well, stoned. But to be fair, he probably was.

Up next is "Airbag", which allays any lingering fears that tonight would be all about Kid A and Amnesiac and receives an ecstatic crowd reaction before something goes wrong and the song is stopped. Thousands of pairs of eyes focus on Thom, wondering if we’ll see any signs of his notoriously short temper with onstage errors. He approaches the mic. “Bugger”, he grins. “Anyway, this one’s called "Airbag"…”.

No, tonight is perhaps the night when Radiohead bury their over-hyped reputations as the most miserable gits this side of Morrissey forever. Know-it-all music hacks (are you listening, NME ?) have long derided Radiohead’s songs as “depressing” and others have followed suit (remember that daft bint on the Meeting People Is Easy doc who described" No Surprises" as “music to slash your wrists to” ?). Well, they’ve always been wrong and tonight the feelings of unity and, dare I say it, celebration are almost overwhelming. Radiohead’s songs are about the small man finding the strength and courage to kick back against the pricks, and this evening it shows. “Only UK date this year” mutters Thom. “No pressure, though”. A violent "Paranoid Android" (tonight dedicated to Geri Haliwell) taunts the elements with its “rain down on me” lyric and lifts South Park several million feet into the air, as devotees and casual fans alike whisper “fuck me” in awestruck tones. Long-standing masterpieces like "Street Spirit" and "Lucky" are merged seamlessly with "Dollars And Cents" from Amnesiac and a frankly incredible "Idioteque", rendering all talk of “old/ new Radiohead” laughably irrelevant. Thom stalks the stage like a man possessed, waving his fist at the crowd and goading us on with screams, desperate for us to feel the way he does about Radiohead’s expansive musical vision. The crowd return by singing along to every single word of every song, including age-old b-side "Talk Show Host". Mr. Blair receives the inevitable dedication: “this one’s for Tony”… cue much supportive vocal derision from the crowd.

In fact, the odd slip-up aside, tonight Radiohead seem so relaxed and happy that Thom’s admission “we’re nervous. Can you tell ?” actually does come as a surprise. After a stunning "Everything In Its Right Place" they depart, only to come back minutes later for the first of three (count ‘em!!!) encores. It’s during this first encore, as the band are playing "How To Disappear", that the heavens open and rain lashes down. What a testament to the sheer brilliance of what was going on onstage that getting soaked to the skin didn’t detract from the atmosphere one iota. Tears fight for room in my eyes during "Fake Plastic Trees", but I forget to feel ashamed.

Finally Radiohead play a savage rendition of "The Bends" as part of the second encore, and stalk offstage once again. That must be it… or is it? The ‘house’ lights remain down. A few lone voices shout for more, soon joined by hundreds of others. After what seems like an eternity the band walk back out and Thom takes up his position behind a keyboard. “This is to send you all home with butterflies in your heads”, he smiles. The opening bars of "Motion Picture Soundtrack" ring out… and then stop. “Bugger”, Thom groans. “Das ist kaputt, ja ?”. The crowd laugh, but almost nervously, so great is the “will the / won’t they?” tension. “Fuck it” says Thom. “I’ve got a better idea”. He signals to the rest of the band. “This is an old one…” he smiles. Phil clicks his drumsticks together, and Ed begins to play the first bar of "Creep".

Instantaneous recognition on the part of… well, everyone in South Park. Yells, tears, screams, fainting… you name it. In the fenced-off moshpit area complete strangers hug each other in total abandonment, tears running down their cheeks. Then 45,000 fans join in one of the biggest singalongs I’ve ever seen, pointing stagewards for the “you’re so fuckin’ special” line and losing it completely for the chorus. Afterwards a genuinely emotional-looking Thom waves goodbye, joined by the rest of Radiohead who all look similarly overwhelmed. Even Ed. As queues form to exit the fenced-off area there is virtual silence for a matter of minutes, until the inevitable hushed tones that signify just having witnessed a truly momentous event.

“I wish I was special” ? Oh, Thom. You are.

Simon Guildford

Brain Farm