Radiohead is a band. They make music. Amnesiac contains music. It was recorded in tandem with Kid A. Kid A was chilly. Amnesiac is warm as ice gets. We are very interested in your files.
Thom Yorke is the singer. This means his words are the focal point of the sound. On this occasion, his words are memory's ghosts. They want us to forget everything, and remember altogether too much. His voice is the sound of tears on a blade. He plays a guitar, and a piano. They split the silence. Thank you for filling out our survey.
Ed O'Brien also plays guitar. This is what's known as adding layers to the sound. Radiohead's sound is mighty and dangerous because of this extra guitar. It is also fragile and wind-blown. It takes away what it adds what it takes away.
There are still more guitars. Jonny Greenwood and Colin Greenwood are brothers. Jonny plays a guitar. Colin plays a guitar known as a bass, lower frequency modulations. Since they are brothers, they are blood. Since they are blood, they get under your skin. Do not scratch. The itch will not find relief.
Phil Selway plays drums. The band is not very nice to Phil. They push his sweat through gears and clockworks. It comes out scrambled and alien. Sometimes, his beats are blows. Oftentimes, they are breaths. We are all enemies when we are friends.
"Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box" hurts my feelings. It has kettle drums, and bass notes, and a playful beat crushed underfoot. It's suffocating in here. It smells bad in here. I can't see the light in here. "After years of waiting, nothing came." What is hope. It is a word made of two consonants and two vowels strung up side by side. It means nothing now. "I'm a reasonable man, get off my case." Paranoia breeds itself. Stop listening.
"Pyramid Song" is sun and hail. The colors are grey, blue and green. Shifting bruises. Injured flesh. A piercing whine that is not self-pity. "Jumped in the river, what did I see?/Black-eyed angels swam with me." Relaxing in the void. "A moon full of stars and astral cars." I can almost travel from there to here, to there. We're all sinking. We are not concerned by this. "Nothing to fear, nothing to doubt." A death rattle can be a beautiful song.
"Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors" comes pre-damaged. The k is one jump away from l. The kill is one jump away from love. Doors that shut behind us. Deeper into a labyrinth made of labyrinths. "There are doors that let you in and out, but never exit." I cannot make out the words. "There are trap doors that you cannot come back from." We are no longer swimming.
"You and Whose Army?" is a chant and a crying jag. A riot inside the head. A pure voice tinged with bile. Vomit, dust, screaming. "We ride tonight!" this voice commands. "Ghost horses." Memory attacks memory on the steaming field. We all lose.
"I Might Be Wrong" is not alright. It is unsettled. It cloaks itself in echoes. It clouds itself in meanings. "I could have sworn I saw a light/Coming on." What surprises? "Let's go down to the waterfall/Have ourselves a good time/It's nothing at all." We are riding the water slides. These mazes that were trapdoors are actually chutes. And we can't back out. We can only hear them locking shut.
"Knives Out" is a wish received. My wish was: I wish "I Might Be Wrong" was a little clearer. My wish was: I wish I could understand what he's getting at. Now I know. Oh god, I know. And now you all know. He wants to kill and be killed. He wants to love and be loved. They are the same. Were they ever not? Shhh, don't scramble. You'll tire yourself out. Best to lie back and be battered. It will be over not soon enough. "If you'd been a dog/They would have drowned you at birth." And "So knives out/Cook him up/Squash his head/Put him in the pot." I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry.
"Morning Bell/Amnesiac" is a repeat. "Morning Bell/Amnesiac" is a repeat. It was previously seen on Kid A, all icicles and broken promises. That take was warmer. This one chimes. This one sings. This one horrifies. There is no hiding from it. "Release me" is a plea, unrealized. "Cut the kids in half." This isn't the bible. This is murder. What's left after this divorce? Pass your papers to the front.
"Dollars & Cents" does not belong here. It is as stupid as R.E.M.'s "Ignoreland" on Automatic for the People. It has no place. A political diatribe without understanding the issues, understanding only the outrage, the displacement. It keeps falling asleep where it stands, shaking its fist in its own face. "It's all over the streets at night." "Dollars & Cents" belongs here.
"Hunting Bears" makes use of weapons. These weapons are sketched in via sound. See how ugly beauty is. How wrong we are right. The predator is the prey. The weapons target us out, individually, as a crowd. Chill.
"Like Spinning Plates" is self-perpetuating. It wears me out. It wears you out. It wears her out, it wears her out. "While you make pretty speeches/I'm being cut to shreds/You feed me to the lions/A delicate balance." I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. But Radiohead are not. They murder us with love. Keep the plates spinning. If they fall, so will you. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. But Radiohead are not. His voice "the muddy river."
"Life in a Glasshouse" lives in Louisiana. It likes jazz. It likes beignets. It loathes tourists, but needs them. Symbiosis is parasitic is paralysis. I do not expect you to understand. He certainly doesn't. He wants to sit down and talk things over. But he knows "someone's listening in." Each and every one of us, moral voyeurs. What would Henry James say? He wouldn't care -- he's dead. We're all dead, throwing stones at reflections.
A pretty box with a bow. And arrow. Chains. Books floating in flooded basements. I can make out their damaged spines. I want to go home now. But I can't get out. Peace has been burned away. All so elemental, this distance to collapse. Pencils down, sunbeam.
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