| It was inevitable that someone would discover a loophole out of which to escape the machinations of the music business without giving up the means by which to sustain their artistic existence. It should come as no surprise that Radiohead, a band that has consistently defied expectations and confounded convention, were the ones to do it. But we are not here to discuss marketing strategies. What matters is the music, and though there are no grand sweeping statements or superhuman stylistic leaps made on In Rainbows, this is without question music that matters.
In 1915 D.H. Lawrence wrote the lush, heady novel “The Rainbow”, a chronicle of sexual dynamics and desire featuring a spirited young woman who rejects the conventional expectations of society in search of self-fulfillment.
Radiohead’s seventh studio album is ripe with the essence of sexual allure. Like the song of the siren, In Rainbows draws the listener deeper into its dark, mysterious heart with every gorgeous moment. This distinctly feminine vibe is echoed even in the manner in which the album is apprehended, it’s demure nature requiring you to make the first move; you must come to it.
In 1830 in an essay entitled “On Imitation in Music”, French composer Hector Berlioz wrote “emotional imitation is designed to arouse in us by means of sound the notion of the several passions of the heart and to awaken solely through the sense of hearing, the impressions that human beings experience only through the other senses.”
On “15 Step”, a jittery apprehensive beat, like an insect scurrying across a hardwood floor, is chased by a heavy boot intermittently thumping the ground in a futile attempt to crush it. An unnerved voice poses rhetorical questions, barely in control of itself, then as the guitar snakes its way into the picture the perspective shifts. Now the questions are third-person admonishments and the sounds gel into a swirling deconstructed symphony complete with a children’s choir on a sugar rush. “Bodysnatchers” is all snarling guitars, gnashing teeth and paranoia, a whirling dervish finding ecstasy in confusion and impending doom. Then the ground disappears and we float weightlessly through the ether of “Nude”. Or are we falling? Either way this sense of seduction with an underlying hint of menace lurking just beneath the surface, is too luxurious to deny. From here onwards, everything happens in weightless suspension and spans a formless stretch of time. “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi” is a stunning evocation of the pure sensuality of water, of swimming through swells and troughs, of surrendering to submersion and of drowning tranquilly in the depths of the unknown. Sound frequencies which unlock forgotten places of the mind reverberate through “All I Need”, an expression of devotion that hinges on obsession, the crashing crescendo echoing an abyss of longing and desperation.
In the 2006 film, “Perfume: The Story of a Murderer”, a young man born with an incomparable sense of smell but no scent of his own, becomes obsessed with creating a mythical essential oil which will imbibe him with the power to manipulate human emotions. He eventually succeeds by dubious means and when he is brought before an angry mob for public execution, he wields his emulsion, sending everyone in the crowd into a swooning trance of aphrodisiacal abandon.
The ghost of Nick Drake haunts “Faust Arp” with it’s whispery vocal melody, intricate acoustic guitar and sighing string arrangement. It is just a wisp of a song, a fleeting fragrance wafting by leaving you grasping at the piqued air around you. “Reckoner” begins with the clattering workings of a mechanical heart pumping its way into life, the impossibly fluid guitar line is the blood carrying biological information to and from the insistent rhythm. The voice is consciousness flowing on that river of plasma. The deep throb of the bass is the brain pulsing with rational control which strokes the tremulous strings of emotion. The shimmering warmth of “House of Cards” oozes like aromatic oils dripping from a copper alembic. Sultry, swaying rhythms are underscored by vacuums of emptiness that expose the thinly-veiled fragility built into the structure of our society. The spell begins to break as “Jigsaw Falling Into Place” shakes us into a sense of burgeoning awareness. We find ourselves struggling to awaken from a feverish dream but still swooning in the undercurrent of the reverie. As all the pieces slowly come together into some semblance of solidity, it becomes apparent that something has gone terribly wrong. “Videotape” is both a prayer and a confession of guilt. Guilt for what? For feeling too much? Or perhaps not enough? As the ominous piano dirge continues it’s inexorable march towards a final fate, the drum stumbles in, a reel-to-reel disconnecting from one of it’s spindles and endlessly faltering with no one there to make it stop.
In 1995, Thom Yorke sang “immerse your soul in love” as if his very life, nay, the entire world, depended upon it. As if he truly believed that these simple words held the power to reverse the processes which will lead to our eventual undoing, if only we possessed the understanding to unlock their true meaning.
Radiohead as an entity have reached a rarified state of relaxed intensity and In Rainbows is the most intimate, elegant and immediate album they have yet produced. At this stage of the game they are providing their own points of reference. They may be making popular music, but it plays by no rules but their own. Working in such an insular environment invites the risk of creative entropy, and we keep waiting for the dam to staunch the flow on their unprecedented stream of immaculate releases .....but it hasn’t happened yet. No longer bent on shattering conceptions so much as refining the very notion of what music is and can be, Radiohead’s In Rainbows is a sensual feast of sounds, impressions and possibilities. Reviewed
by: fallingman
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