Radiohead & guests
South Park
Oxford
July 7, 2001

The first thing that strikes you about today is just how damn weird the whole scenario is. That Oxford can even be hosting an event of this size in the first place, or that, once inside the arena can this really be the same South Park that hosts Fun in the Parks and assorted balloon festivals? The city centre meanwhile looks more like the centre of Reading over August Bank Holiday.

The less said about the queuing system for the bar the better; let us instead see how our two gallant local newcomers cope with the biggest gig of their lives. Maximum respect to The Rock of Travolta for their intro tape alone: the clever and ever so silly mockery of Radiohead's `Fitter Happier' provokes mass laughter and as they launch into `Giant Robo', with few signs of any nerves, everything we've written about them in the last year is entirely justified. They swap instruments, pump the air in mock-rock exuberance and prove that you can do post-rock with tunes that your milkman could whistle. `Lukewarm Skywater' as ever is the stand-out track but as `I Am Your Father' pulses and fades into oblivion they know they've won over a whole new army of fans and left the critics silent.

Hester Thrale, initially at least, seem more overawed by proceedings and it takes them a while to hit their stride. When they do they prove that, yes, prog-rock is back as proud as ever and being in love with Radiohead doesn't have to mean you end up sounding like Muse. `Piano One' and the sweetly rustic `Move the Flags' stand out in an understated set and then they disappear, doubtless to plot their own headline spot here in five years' time.

And then it's, OH MY GOD, it really is your granddad on stage. No, really. His name is Humphrey Lyttleton - jazz legend, Radio 4 quiz host, occasional saviour of Radiohead and the coolest octogenarian on the planet. He, along with the rest of his band, wear bad shirts and ply mellow Sunday lunchtime vibes that shake you back into the reality of suburban Oxfordshire. Nice.

The first crack of thunder of the day brings a huge cheer from the crowd, quickly followed by a horrible realisation from all concerned that they just haven't dressed for rain. It also heralds the arrival of Iceland's Sigur Ros, who really shouldn't work in this spacious setting but do - and in some style, opening with the gorgeous `Svefn-G-Englar' and bringing a welcome chill to the humid atmosphere. Their fragile sound monuments stand up well to the elements, the string quartet cutting a swathe across the park and even managing to soothe the savage breasts of the Morrell Avenue residents association. Probably.

Supergrass too are a triumphant, if occasionally untidy, surprise. Mainly because in their absence you can forget just how much fun they are. Their set is punctuated by thunder cracks but, from the bristling teen-punk of `Caught by the Fuzz' to the carouselling psychedelia of `Going Out', they rip it up likes there's not a cloud in the sky. `Sun Hits The Sky' brightens the mood even further but it's a storming version of `Richard III' that really takes the breath away.

In fact the only disappointment of the day is Beck. Time was the only predictable thing about the man was his unpredictability. Today's not-quite-solo set is a tedious - but at least mercifully short - lesson in how wrong things can go when you try and play the campfire troubadour in front of 40,000 people. He plays a Hank Williams cover but we're too busy buying an organic chickpea curry to notice or care.

But let us brush quickly past this temporary aberration, because today is really about Radiohead. As grey skies fade to black and the giant video screens blink into life, the static hum and buzz of `The National Anthem' crackles through the speakers. The reception for the band is incredible; their rise, relatively unaided by hype or patronage, to this level is a fantastic vindication of original, inventive music everywhere. "Our only UK show - no pressure" mutters Thom Yorke slyly. They're here to enjoy themselves too.

Tonight's two-hour set is a greatest hits show - from `The Bends' itself to the awesome `Pyramid Song'. It's a stark reminder that Radiohead are responsible for a good dozen or so of the greatest moments ever in rock music: the haunting `How to Disappear Completely' and `Talk Show Host'; the motorik dub grooves of `Idioteque'; the brash, opulent lunacy of `Paranoid Android'; the sleek sci-fi emptiness of `Fake Plastic Trees' and best of all, a howling version of `Lucky' - everything carries an aura of effortless other-worldliness. There's nothing awkward or hard to understand about songs like `You And Whose Army' or `Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box' when they're uncoiling with such majestic power, burning through the by now torrential rain.

Radiohead's live power has never been in doubt - their last Oxford gig, five years ago at the Zodiac remains one of the most staggering evening's in local musical history - but it's still incredible how they breathe such fire into songs like `Morning Bell' which on CD seem hell-bent on snarling quietly from a corner. The show itself is spectacular enough - a giant computer-controlled lighting backdrop seemingly stolen from Gary Numan's early 80s extravaganzas reflects off the boiling clouds above while the video screens pump out tastefully arty images of the band in slow motion or disjointed staccato. The band too are as animated as they've ever been - Ed, Colin and Jonny contort and spasm across the stage as Thom wracks his body, feeling every spat out word; more than mere players, there's a real feeling that Radiohead dare conduits for some greater force. Even when Thom takes to the piano for the supposedly more sedate moments in the set there's a nervous energy that fizzes from the stage, infecting the front few rows until it spreads up the slope of the park and the earlier mellow mood turns becomes a fervour. Radiohead wanted today to be special and no-one can doubt its success.

And then, sometime around quarter to eleven, something really quite staggering happens. Something that could only have happened here, tonight, in Oxford. Radiohead play `Creep' for the first time in, what, six years? "A little something to send you on your way home" grins Thom and 40,000 people sing along and mime Jonny Greenwood's `gronk, gronk' guitar bit before the chorus and nobody minds that they're soaked to the skin. Because tonight they just witnessed a homecoming to rival any conquering Roman emperor. Radiohead: the best band in the world - bar none.

Sue Foreman

Nightshift
07.01