Since I was a nipper I’ve been aware of a gap in my character where most fellows have a football. Or at least an abiding love of that game. I grew up in Nottingham in an era when Nottingham Forest couldn’t sneeze without winning a trophy. By all accounts, they were the most accomplished club in Europe for a couple of years – and of course, they were managed by the city’s beloved, adopted son Brian Clough. All my friends were captivated by the team’s success and reveled in each new glory. I, on the other hand, didn’t give a monkey’s. I could see nothing remotely inspiring or heroic in the kicking of balls in fields and was moved not one iota by the achievements of my local side, preferring Hammer horror movies and latterly Sex Pistols records.
No, I didn’t like football then and I don’t much care for it now.
Unfortunately, I have since discovered another gaping enthusiasm void, perfectly positioned to set me at odds with my peers. I don’t like Radiohead.
That’s right – Radiohead, the arch crafters of conceptual guitar music; creators of aching odes to anxiety and uncertainty; stunningly capable rock artistes, I consider to be a bit rubbish.
Before you leap to your keyboard, calling for my swift demise, I will happily confirm this to be a problem with me. I am painfully aware that Radiohead have won more awards than Adrian Chiles has had hot dinners and you’d look long and hard to find anyone not completely bowled over by their vision and scope, but my lack of appreciation is as palpable as it is mystifying.
When a band doesn't impress me, I don’t often delve into the reasons. After all, there’s no accounting for taste. But such is the ubiquity of the adoration for Radiohead, I figured I owed it to myself to work out why we don’t connect.
First off, there’s the misery. I completely accept that introspection and self-loathing can produce some stunning works. From Van Gough to Ian Curtis, the suffering soul of a human being has always had the ability to communicate its pain through art and empathy. But it must either be delivered with an ironic wink – as in Morrissey – or be so profoundly sincere, it breaks hearts – as in Nick Drake. Thom Yorke, for me, falls at both hurdles. I can find neither self-effacing sarcasm nor genuine agony in his lyrics, it’s just all a bit whiney. And I don’t like whiney.
Which brings me on to Mr. Yorke’s delivery. Travelling, as I do, on Britain’s rail network a great deal, I am often unfortunate enough to encounter a tired, grouchy and slightly spoilt child, pestering a parent with constant demands for sweets, a wee or just attention. They do this in an elongated and irksome, high pitched tone. Guess who’s singing voice I’m reminded of. And much like those tortured parents, Radiohead songs seem to move me to snap ‘Oh, for goodness sake Thom, do stop moaning !!’
Then there’s the material itself. I’m not foolish enough to expect big pop hooks from this most disgruntled of bands, but something to hum would be handy. Even Pink Floyd have tunes while the likes of No Surprises and Paranoid Android just seem to drone on and on before petering out. By the time we get to the quite dreadful Pyramid Song we are faced with the prospect of a wonkily obscure time signature, Thom thumping away on a piano and (no shock here) moaning and whining atonally. They actually performed this racket live on Top of the Pops.
For most bands, song writing flair evolves as they become more experienced and adept, but for Radiohead, the desire to appear arch and arty has driven away their moderately winning way with a rock song (as heard on Pablo Honey and The Bends). What's more, I’m afraid I find the ‘experimental’ gurgles, which have replaced their more conventional tunes, utterly baffling, not in the least interesting and quite spectacularly pretentious.
Ah yes! Pretentiousness. I think I may be getting to the nub of the problem here. Clearly creative endeavours can be both pretentious and rather wonderful (Pink Floyd's The Wall, the Manic Street Preachers’ The Holy Bible), but Radiohead are far too busy hill-walking in the upper reaches of their own colons to be entertaining. Look at the evidence:
- Album titles: Kid A, The King of Limbs and the truly wanky In Rainbows
- Creep: world conquering single, they refuse to play
- And claim they don’t recognise when they hear it
- Touring in a big tent
- Spelling Tom, ‘Thom’
- They also spell their URL ‘Radiohead Dot Com’ and say their website is 'freeform'.
- Intentionally distorting tracks in the mix so they sound ‘wrong’
- Sometimes wearing beards
I could go on.
You disagree, I know. You quite possibly fancy Radiohead as the finest band ever to walk the face of the earth. Maybe you agree every time OK Computer is voted the ‘greatest album of all time’ in those magazine polls (better than ‘Pet Sounds’, better than ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’?) and you may well be correct.
You could be spot on about those soccer matches too. But, as I say, I have these character defects.
No, I didn’t like football then and I don’t much care for it now.
Unfortunately, I have since discovered another gaping enthusiasm void, perfectly positioned to set me at odds with my peers. I don’t like Radiohead.
That’s right – Radiohead, the arch crafters of conceptual guitar music; creators of aching odes to anxiety and uncertainty; stunningly capable rock artistes, I consider to be a bit rubbish.
Before you leap to your keyboard, calling for my swift demise, I will happily confirm this to be a problem with me. I am painfully aware that Radiohead have won more awards than Adrian Chiles has had hot dinners and you’d look long and hard to find anyone not completely bowled over by their vision and scope, but my lack of appreciation is as palpable as it is mystifying.
When a band doesn't impress me, I don’t often delve into the reasons. After all, there’s no accounting for taste. But such is the ubiquity of the adoration for Radiohead, I figured I owed it to myself to work out why we don’t connect.
First off, there’s the misery. I completely accept that introspection and self-loathing can produce some stunning works. From Van Gough to Ian Curtis, the suffering soul of a human being has always had the ability to communicate its pain through art and empathy. But it must either be delivered with an ironic wink – as in Morrissey – or be so profoundly sincere, it breaks hearts – as in Nick Drake. Thom Yorke, for me, falls at both hurdles. I can find neither self-effacing sarcasm nor genuine agony in his lyrics, it’s just all a bit whiney. And I don’t like whiney.
Which brings me on to Mr. Yorke’s delivery. Travelling, as I do, on Britain’s rail network a great deal, I am often unfortunate enough to encounter a tired, grouchy and slightly spoilt child, pestering a parent with constant demands for sweets, a wee or just attention. They do this in an elongated and irksome, high pitched tone. Guess who’s singing voice I’m reminded of. And much like those tortured parents, Radiohead songs seem to move me to snap ‘Oh, for goodness sake Thom, do stop moaning !!’
Then there’s the material itself. I’m not foolish enough to expect big pop hooks from this most disgruntled of bands, but something to hum would be handy. Even Pink Floyd have tunes while the likes of No Surprises and Paranoid Android just seem to drone on and on before petering out. By the time we get to the quite dreadful Pyramid Song we are faced with the prospect of a wonkily obscure time signature, Thom thumping away on a piano and (no shock here) moaning and whining atonally. They actually performed this racket live on Top of the Pops.
For most bands, song writing flair evolves as they become more experienced and adept, but for Radiohead, the desire to appear arch and arty has driven away their moderately winning way with a rock song (as heard on Pablo Honey and The Bends). What's more, I’m afraid I find the ‘experimental’ gurgles, which have replaced their more conventional tunes, utterly baffling, not in the least interesting and quite spectacularly pretentious.
Ah yes! Pretentiousness. I think I may be getting to the nub of the problem here. Clearly creative endeavours can be both pretentious and rather wonderful (Pink Floyd's The Wall, the Manic Street Preachers’ The Holy Bible), but Radiohead are far too busy hill-walking in the upper reaches of their own colons to be entertaining. Look at the evidence:
- Album titles: Kid A, The King of Limbs and the truly wanky In Rainbows
- Creep: world conquering single, they refuse to play
- And claim they don’t recognise when they hear it
- Touring in a big tent
- Spelling Tom, ‘Thom’
- They also spell their URL ‘Radiohead Dot Com’ and say their website is 'freeform'.
- Intentionally distorting tracks in the mix so they sound ‘wrong’
- Sometimes wearing beards
I could go on.
You disagree, I know. You quite possibly fancy Radiohead as the finest band ever to walk the face of the earth. Maybe you agree every time OK Computer is voted the ‘greatest album of all time’ in those magazine polls (better than ‘Pet Sounds’, better than ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’?) and you may well be correct.
You could be spot on about those soccer matches too. But, as I say, I have these character defects.
