It's an intimate gig, considering there's a gathering of 10,000 assembled under one tent. But it's not just the tent design that allows for such intimacy, such a feeling of proximity to Thom, Ed, Colin, Johnny and Phil. It may have something to do with one of the best bands in the world radiating their awe-inspiring presence around these logo-less, canvas-covered domains. Predominating the foreground are Thom the tortured song-monger; Johnny the fragile indie-kid, his floppy fringe obscuring his chiselled features and dangling over his guitar neck; and the handsome and elusive Ed, a vision of nonchalant cool: three unquestionably charismatic figures.

It could well be due to the fact their long-awaited fourth album is released in a week's time. Indeed, faces are knotted in anticipation of the first hearings of Kid A. Apart from the media types, that is, who prefer to discuss the gastronomic merits of the lamb kebab they've just purchased from the better-than-average festie-like stalls than watch a Radiohead show. Or apart from those who appear to have sprung from Planet Les Battersby to... wait for it... heckle. Yes heckle Thom Yorke. Surreal but true, a very strange contingent of Radiohead fan, who would be more suited to a Jimmy Tarbuck-style comedy event 'down the Legion', is randomly dispersed within the crowd, to add a totally different kind of torment to tonight's proceedings. They seem to have parted with 25 quid to laugh in the face of angst. For Radiohead are indeed purveyors of original musical angst, the contemporary leaders in the field... If it wasn't for Radiohead, there'd be no Muse, no Coldplay, and no post-Radiohead stragglers... But would Radiohead ever admit responsibility? No way. This is a band who felt undervalued in their early career stages, and overvalued now they're world renowned (and selling four and half million copies of one of the best albums ever made).

The remainder however - the majority, that is - have spent their hard-earned cash wisely. For every serious fan present is here to immerse themselves in Thom Yorke's personal torment, particles of which are dished out evenly between those open to its source. It's so self-indulgent, but that sense of intimacy with its provider is awe-inspiring, whatever your proximity to the stage. And if you're after an almighty chunk of the new Radiohead, the Radiohead that reached breakdown point over the making of their fourth album, the Radiohead who assembled, and reassembled songs while band members readapted their creative senses to conceive a higher life form, then tonight's performance will be far from disappointing. The new album is showcased in the finest light possible. And it's astounding when one considers every band member had to condition themselves to the fact they wouldn't be playing on every track, which additionally involved swapping their beloved instrument for a device that would befit the likes of Aphex Twin or... Jean Michel Jarre even. Which is all very well, but a for a band whose make-up includes three guitarists? Hence this readjustment saw severe inter-band differences, extremes of opinion that could have culminated in a parting of ways. But hey, that all adds to the tension present in the music doesn't it?

But they made it. There's no evident on-stage tension, well apart from the striking battle with inner demons witnessed in Thom. So for the thousands of onlookers, it's an odd combination of voyeurism and an exercise in personal exorcism. You see, Thom throws his whole being, his soul into his performance. The result can only bear parallel with the '80s god of musical torment, Ian Curtis. Thom's moves are jerky, his head rocking spasmodically, his arms waving randomly. At times, his moves mimic those of a busking wino. At others, his whole body appears to be controlled by some demonic puppeteer. And it's just so fascinating to watch, that is when you're not partaking in the anguish, allowing your own personal demons to surface.

So there's an aura of concentration surrounding the stage, all willing devotees, anxious to be educated in Kid A methodology. Even the dance world are impressed by the abstract electronic soundscapes present in Kid A. Renditions of the dramatically-textured "Optimistic", "Morning Bell" with its pitch-soaring vocals, and the bass-drenched turbulence of "The National Anthem", succeed in whetting appetites but don't quite prepare you for the spine-tingly, pit-of-stomach sensation that comes next. First with "Airbag". Then with "Karma Police", a glorious banner-waving (but you don't, 'cause this ain't Embrace now), lyric-mouthing, dare-I-say-it, anthem. Returning once more to pastures new for "In Limbo"'s gentle, almost early Verve-like flutterings and the not so absorbing "Knives Out" (not on Kid A) before the melancholy fairytale chords of "No Surprises" wrap us in a deliciously tear-sodden muslin, followed contrastingly by the adrenalin-charged, rock-licked head-f*** of "My Iron Lung".

Can things get any better? Oh God, yes. This unpredictable melange of familiar, soon-to-be-familiar and new material we won't be able to get our mits on until album number five (if they decide to include it, that is) retains a ubiquitous fervour: "Dollars & Cents" with its whirlwind of smouldering guitars could well make the fifth album worth the (much briefer) wait. This is positioned alongside "Street Spirit (Fade Out)" - tonight's eye of the storm, and then followed by the unanimously appreciated (if the ear-drum pulverising screams are anything to go by) "Paranoid Android" complete with a heartfelt crowd chorus contribution to add a harmonic rather than a soccer-style sing-a-long dimension. The next dramatic contrast is provided by the overwhelmingly infectious, yet haunting and crisply constructed, futuristic electronica of "Idiotheque".

Then... "This one's for the dirty little boys!" announces Thom in a perverted, cane-wielding school-master tone for "Just" - in one of several instances of dry humour, succeeded by what now feels like the best song ever written, "Fake Plastic Trees". Cue more hushed crowd harmonies. "They don't get any better," declares one such Les Battersby apparition to anyone in the vicinity. F*** yes, they do. "Lucky" sets tears welling and rolling down cheeks, and yet celebrates its own yearning beauty. And the unreleased "Egyptian Song" sees Thom crooning from behind the piano, at times his voice almost transforming into an Asian-like vibrato.

And after another humorous outburst, "This one's for Colin's glasses," the introduction to Talk Show Host, final song "Exit Music (For A Film)" demands silence (but doesn't quite receive it), closing on the repeated line "We hope that you choke, that you choke...", leaving a bitter, yet poignant after-taste, that promises to stew... Until the next time.

-Julie Glassman

bol.com
26.09.00