22 MUSIC : yorkVision
9th October, 2000 Issue 122
Yorke’s finest? Ben Hulme-Cross Kid A Radiohead (Out now) KID A, Radiohead’s very longawaited album, was finally unleashed on October 2. A slow whispering campaign issued scraps of speculation that Britain’s famously depressive artists had progressed from their trademark teenage-angsty-rock to a new avant-garde, chaotic melee of sound. Nothing could be further from the truth. Progressed they have but chaotic and noisy they are not. The first few tracks, with their loops and rewinds, affirm Radiohead’s intention to delve deeply into the world of modern sound technology. Formerly an object of horror in Thom Yorke’s lyrics, machinery is welcomed into Kid A to create a wholly new sound for the band.
The surreal, gentle warmth and melancholy of No surprises has been perfectly imported into the new ambience. Thom’s voice is at its best, sad but not bitter, steady not harsh. In their own terms, Radiohead have created something new but not exactly ground-breaking in the bigger picture. Their use of ambient, floating, electronic whale music forms an unlikely but strangely effective platform for Thom’s slow singing, but we’ve heard it before – just not here. The utterly inappropriately named Optimistic is more recognisable; fast, heavy, tribal, claustrophobic beat supporting more pained vocals. From this point the album enters a dark, oppressive phase. In Limbo and Idioteque are a bit like a nasty trip – powerful and evocative but horribly so. Then to Motion Picture Soundtrack, a gentle come-down with hints of trouble eased by swooping harp rifts that concludes the album perfectly. Kid A is the band’s most effective use to date of the contrast between the extremes of their range: at once soothing and deeply unhappy, calm and deranged.
“KAISER SOSE, he the Butcher.” exhaled the sweating man in my office, nostrils sending smoke bill o w i n g around his noticeably Puerto Rican collar. This man was afraid, very afraid. Situations like these require finely
They have created something beautiful. For hardened Radiohead fans anything would have done and this definitely will. For those who found their former whining too much to bear the edges have been thoroughly smoothed and the surfaces polished. Almost impossibly, Kid A is a worthy successor to OK Computer. So buy a copy, bring it back in the rain, stick it on and relax in a warm room, making sure all drugs and sharp or dangerous objects are out of reach.
Thom’s voice is at its best, sad but not bitter, steady not harsh. Kid A is at once soothing and deeply unhappy, calm and deranged.
judged words to both calm and collect: “Anyone fancy a pint?” Strong words indeed, but softly spoken; and with that I was limping off to the Singles Bar. Now here’s a Maxim for you: Scheming never really gets off the ground. His debut album Hell’s Kitchen is pretty diverse but can’t move away from the power generated by Keith Flint’s gnashing vocals.There are better singles to be released, I’m sure. Still, like the Prodigal Son, he perhaps resents his less than choirboy background. This two-step dancehall number features Trina Allen but that wasn’t enough to placate my Puerto Rican partner.
Happy Days At The Drive-In Alex Watson Relationship of Command At The Drive-In (Out now) At The Drive-In are yet another band that the NME, in its charitable guise as ‘appointers of the next saviours of real, authentic, rock music’, has saddled with the ‘best US rock band since Nirvana’ tag. But having said that, listening to the blistering din (there’s no other word for such a pure expression of rock music’s real ability to create such great noise) of the first track, you begin to think NME might have a point. And they do, in as far as At The DriveIn are both really good, really interesting, and immensely gripping to listen to. I don’t think it’s fair, reasonable, or even that intelligent to ‘knight’ them as the heroes capable of battling the talentless growling tendencies of Korn, Slipknot and the Bizkit et al, but At The Drive-In have
It doesn’t always succeed in what it tries to do – But this is a record that tries to take a great leap – and that’s exactly
certainly proved that the glimpses of greatness and the almost otherworldly qualities of music last really seen in Nirvana, haven’t been totally forgotten. Relationship of Command is a difficult record to categorise; it sounds punk – the drums hammer, guitars are on overdrive
and the vocals are at times psychopathic. But the songs reward close listening, because there’s a lot going on; some great changes of pace, and some very strange sampling and interludes – for instance, the introduction to Enfilade, where (as far as I can tell) a hyena phones up a leopard and tells her to look after her cub(!) However, it’s these extremely disparate, irregular elements that make Relationship of Command a strangely prepossessing and engrossing album. It doesn’t always succeed in what it tries to do – some of the tracks lack definition from each other, and some people will find its rough sound and off-kilter balance genuinely repellent. I for one, though, don’t. This is a record that tries to take a great leap – and that’s exactly what’s needed. It’s got a lot of guts, and (more than a) little vision.
He almost jumped out of his skin at the Blackalicious Deception (Don’t Let Money Change Ya). This single’s too groovy for its own good. They’ve certainly cashed in on two exceptional b-sides where Money Mark gets on the keyboards and Hip Hop’s heroes the Nextmen rework Trouble to complete the set. Best of a swarthy-looking bunch. Somewhat reassured, the paranoid South American and I lurch for the bar. “What have you got lined up for us tonight?” I innocently ask, “Oh just the usual suspects.” he replies, sending the Puerto Rican into paroxysms of wild-eyed terror. Only one thing for it, Hinda Hicks and My Remedy which is like doubles for singles and goes down well, considering. Her sound is comfortingly British with a Transatlantic reach - bit like Tyson in reverse...
He who sings last sings loudest Gareth Walker
Sing When You’re Winning Robbie Williams (Out now) WHAT IS there left to say? Tattooed tabloid-fodder Robbie Williams is back (Does anyone remember him going away?) with his third album. Do we care if it’s trash? More importantly, does Robbie? In fact he seems perfectly bored by the whole experience. Nowhere more so than on Forever Texas and Kids, plodding rockers of an almost Spinal Tap level of villainy. The latter wheels in Kylie Minogue, seemingly for no other purpose than to breath heavily into the microphone (and even this proves more than she should ever be allowed to do in a recording studio). Better Man meanwhile is, according to Robbie, the result of divine interven-
tion. He sat down, picked up a guitar, prayed to the spirit of John Lennon and the words just came. If so it’s nice to see that after twenty years cold in the ground John hasn’t lost his sense of humour: cheekily deciding to bless the boy Williams with nothing better than a cheap rip-off of She’s the One. All this is not to say that Robbie hasn’t had a go at being almost suicidally inventive. In fact - on at least a couple of the album’s songs - it sounds dangerously like he’s trying to be sincere. The problem is that a Robbie Williams stripped of the irony, cheeky grin and knowing leer is about as interesting as Gary Barlow - and likely to be just as successful. Unsurprisingly then, in the end it’s only Rock DJ which can hold its head high. Arrogantly strutting with cat-walk perfection and digging its nine-inch popslut stilettos into the flabby filler of the rest of the album.
Better Man is, according to Robbie, the result of divine intervention. He prayed to John Lennon and the words just came. It’s nice to see that John hasn’t lost his sense of humour:
Resting on her furry sofa and her laurels, Sonique shows that whereas clouds have silver lining, Sky does not. The former S’Express singer should do well in Europe...and to stay there. A grumble from the bar has my PR guy on the edge of his seat. “U2?” I ask, knowing that, like Vitalstatistix, Bono feared that Sky might fall on his head, or at least rest on his shoulders. No need to worry though, his Beautiful Day is a superb anthemic jaunt through U2’s repertoir. Cousteau insisted that it was The Last Good Day Of The Year, and with such a sublime velvety voice who would argue? He elevates depression into an art form. “Where does imagination end and reality begin?” asks Francois Moity on his increadible Opening Night. Definitive deep house and urban jazz remixes make this a very sophisticated single indeed. With that question ringing in my ears my Peurto Rican and I left the twilight bar with its single population, striding into the