Radiohead
Shepherd's
Bush Empire
London
May
25, 2003
It's a miracle Thom Yorke has the strength to crawl out of bed every day. As a sweaty palm rubs his agonised forehead, banishing the terrifying dreams of fire, destruction and seas of blood, the reality of being the face of the world's most omnipotent band presumably hurts like hell.
So you might question why Radiohead would decide to mark their most intimate London show in recent memory by allowing corporate nemesis MTV to plant a string of camera sentries throughout the Empire, sacrificing space that fans would have given their right ear to claim.
Yorke clearly regrets the decision. "I f*cking hate TV gigs", he admits, later apologising to the crowd, insisting there will be no further bending-over to The Man. Beyond any allegations of hypocrisy, it's symptomatic of the impossible quandary this undeniably imperious, united band have grappled with since OK Computer. The very conundrum that propelled them to fire-up laptops, unplug guitars and begin to devour their own identities and legacy.
Sonically, the band have vaguely emerged from their self-imposed cocoon but must take pleasure in the results of the adventure. Forever a terrific live force, tonight the material from Kid A and Amnesiac is almost universally immense. Originally pilloried as difficult, cold and wilfully abstract, this music has become as vital and powerful as much of their enviable canon.
The ragged control of 'National Anthem' is unleashed in a fury of red, purple and blue strobes, while 'I Might Be Wrong', loose and one-dimensional on record, becomes a violent bucking horse. The cut-and-paste mantra of 'Everything In Its Right Place' evolves into a inclusive anti-anthem, whilst 'Idiotique' - the apogee of Radiohead's electro-nightmare fusion and the match of towering renditions of 'Lucky', 'Karma Police' and 'Paranoid Android' - sees Yorke convulsing like the prize exhibit at a freak show. "Go Tommy!", reacts one amused rubber-necker.
Elsewhere, the menacing unease of 'Like Spinning Plates' is reborn, Yorke walking on clouds across the piano, whilst a graceful, luminous 'Pyramid Song' is prefaced by the question: "So, anyone else have dreams about floods?" As the applause dies at the close, Yorke, who's cryptic grasp of goggle-eyed artifice and truly twisted outcast treads a very fine line, concludes: "...just me then."
In comparison, some of the incoming Hail To The Thief material makes for somewhat rum company. Not opener 'There There' though, which is pure exhilaration, growing ever more greedy on your brain, as it builds towards the throat-cutting guitar solo. '2+2=5' is a violent, Bends-era clout over the head, while 'Sit Down, Stand Up' explodes out of a threatening piano motif into a blitzkrieg of sci-fi shock and awe.
However, 'Backdrifts', despite mesmeric backwards guitars from the alchemical Johnny Greenwood, builds gloopily and clumsily and 'The Gloaming' meanders in a pointlessly artful, sickly fashion. Elsewhere, the likes of 'Go To Sleep', 'Where I End And You Begin' and the unintentionally comic 'A Punch Up At A Wedding' break no new ground, but perhaps that's the point. Indeed, the stunningly simple, aching piano-led 'Sail To The Moon', alongside the closing 'True Love Waits', sung solo by Yorke, are as disarming as anything tonight.
As he struggles with the words to 'True Love Waits' at the show's climax, Yorke head-butts the microphone and a smile cracks across his face, betraying the supposedly crippling weight of his iconic stature. Really, it's not such a sickening life, is it?
Ben Gilbert