iconocaust (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} iconocaust) wrote,@ 2007-10-11 02:01:00 |
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Album Rack
RADIOHEAD - IN RAINBOWS
They did it to themselves.
The most damning thing I can say about Radiohead's latest opus is this: I paid nothing, and still felt ripped off. If nothing else, I at least want my time and bandwidth back.
For those of us who boarded S. S. Radiohead back in the salad days of The Bends and its world-conquering follow-up, OK Computer, the career slump that's followed has been somewhere between mortifying and infuriating. With the willful perversity only a perpetual outsider could muster, Thom Yorke and company have spent each successive album drifting further and further away from the muscular, polished indie rock that made them a hallmark name in the first place, gradually metamorphosing from a Grade A guitar band to a Grade D electronica outfit in the process. For those who didn't have the good fortune of hearing "Just" or "Paranoid Android" the first time around, the adoration this band continues to command must be nothing short of mystifying, but in all honesty: without the awesome reputation of those two blockbuster albums behind it, the aimless noodling of late-model Radiohead would have long since disappeared into obscurity.
Given the long preamble-cum-history lesson, it probably shouldn't come as any great surprise that In Rainbows doesn't reverse this trend. Indeed, it's the least satisfying in a long line of increasingly underwhelming LPs, a collection of songs with all the heft and substance of an all-you-can-eat styrofoam buffet; the ultimate in empty musical calories. Structure, form, melody, rhythm -- all these things have been sacrificed on the altar of avant-garde, leaving a scant forty-five minutes of underproduced musical doodles smothered by brittle, almost robotic percussion that just won't quit.
If any of it sticks in the immediate brain for longer than five minutes, it's because it's accidentally, coincidentally reminiscent of something that's real music, albeit music bled of all semblance of passion, warmth, and life. "Bodysnatchers" is Oasis getting into a drunken brawl, breaking an amp, then attempting to cover "Within You Without You" on its shattered remains; "Reckoner" is eerily reminiscent of early Bronski Beat; closer "Videotape" sounds like a supremely botched cover of the 'Head's own "Pyramid Song." Some tracks will drive you to hit the 'Skip' button, others simply bore you into submission; either way, it's hard to imagine a less engaging record making the rounds this year. Even Yorke sounds apathetic in places, mumbling inane lyrics over equally inane music or just mewling to fill up dead air; there's nothing here even scraping within spitting distance of the goggle-eyed fury of "Electioneering" or -- hell -- "Myxomatosis" from Hail to the Thief.
Inevitably, In Rainbows will find its defenders; Pitchfork Media's laughably detailed guide to this wispy collection of post-musical ephemera is nothing if not representative of the power the Radiohead name still wields. But the hell with it. The Emperor is naked, and life is too short to waste time pretending otherwise; not while there's still bands with real passion and vigor making the rounds who deserve that love and support tenfold.
2
RADIOHEAD - IN RAINBOWS
They did it to themselves.
The most damning thing I can say about Radiohead's latest opus is this: I paid nothing, and still felt ripped off. If nothing else, I at least want my time and bandwidth back.
For those of us who boarded S. S. Radiohead back in the salad days of The Bends and its world-conquering follow-up, OK Computer, the career slump that's followed has been somewhere between mortifying and infuriating. With the willful perversity only a perpetual outsider could muster, Thom Yorke and company have spent each successive album drifting further and further away from the muscular, polished indie rock that made them a hallmark name in the first place, gradually metamorphosing from a Grade A guitar band to a Grade D electronica outfit in the process. For those who didn't have the good fortune of hearing "Just" or "Paranoid Android" the first time around, the adoration this band continues to command must be nothing short of mystifying, but in all honesty: without the awesome reputation of those two blockbuster albums behind it, the aimless noodling of late-model Radiohead would have long since disappeared into obscurity.
Given the long preamble-cum-history lesson, it probably shouldn't come as any great surprise that In Rainbows doesn't reverse this trend. Indeed, it's the least satisfying in a long line of increasingly underwhelming LPs, a collection of songs with all the heft and substance of an all-you-can-eat styrofoam buffet; the ultimate in empty musical calories. Structure, form, melody, rhythm -- all these things have been sacrificed on the altar of avant-garde, leaving a scant forty-five minutes of underproduced musical doodles smothered by brittle, almost robotic percussion that just won't quit.
If any of it sticks in the immediate brain for longer than five minutes, it's because it's accidentally, coincidentally reminiscent of something that's real music, albeit music bled of all semblance of passion, warmth, and life. "Bodysnatchers" is Oasis getting into a drunken brawl, breaking an amp, then attempting to cover "Within You Without You" on its shattered remains; "Reckoner" is eerily reminiscent of early Bronski Beat; closer "Videotape" sounds like a supremely botched cover of the 'Head's own "Pyramid Song." Some tracks will drive you to hit the 'Skip' button, others simply bore you into submission; either way, it's hard to imagine a less engaging record making the rounds this year. Even Yorke sounds apathetic in places, mumbling inane lyrics over equally inane music or just mewling to fill up dead air; there's nothing here even scraping within spitting distance of the goggle-eyed fury of "Electioneering" or -- hell -- "Myxomatosis" from Hail to the Thief.
Inevitably, In Rainbows will find its defenders; Pitchfork Media's laughably detailed guide to this wispy collection of post-musical ephemera is nothing if not representative of the power the Radiohead name still wields. But the hell with it. The Emperor is naked, and life is too short to waste time pretending otherwise; not while there's still bands with real passion and vigor making the rounds who deserve that love and support tenfold.
2
