The day you've all been waiting for has finally come! Jim lists his top 10 Radiohead songs, all ranked and defended. Agree or disagree, let's hear your take on the oeuvre of one of rock music's greatest bands.
Song 10: "Myxomatosis"
Album: "Hail to the Thief"
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Oh, that bassline. You could sing “Mary Had A Little Lamb” over that thing and still end up with an invigorating track.
It sounds like Radiohead kidnapped a cello player, threw him in the trunk of the car, and then competed in a demolition derby with the car on “Myxomatosis.” Such is the seesawingly funky groove that is created. When you combine that with the lockstep precision of Phil Selway’s jazzy drumming, you’ve got a rhythm section unlike anything on this Earth.
There’s not much that needs to be added at that point, but Thom Yorke delivers anyway with some fever-dream lyrics that suit the chaotic proceedings flawlessly. The first verse sounds like an Aesop’s fable as written by Chuck Palahniuk. After that, Yorke goes on to stammer about his inability to properly communicate his message, which, for a guy whose lyrics are the subject of endless debate, must have resonated with him something fierce.
There’s a perverse sense of humor that runs through the entire song, making it, for me, one of the most flat-out fun Radiohead tracks. That’s not to say it’s frivolous; I don’t think the band could ever go down that avenue. But there’s still something tongue-in-cheek about it, as if the band is having a laugh at the perception that they’re a morose bunch. Name-checking a rabbit disease is just another curve ball to send the obsessive fans diving for clues, but I think this is the band at its most off-the-cuff and irreverent, taking the piss out of their own image.
Song 9: "How to Disappear Completely"
Album: "Kid A"
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“That there/That’s not me.” With that Thom Yorke begins this haunting ballad, recounting the out-of-body feeling that helped him to cope with the encroaching pressures of fame. It’s a testament to the sturdiness of the song that it comes off not as simply as a rock star complaining but rather as a universal lament that could resonate with anyone whose life has backed them into a corner.
There are so many elements that come together subtly to create the desired disembodied affect. The string section that Jonny Greenwood composed is beautiful and yet off-kilter, as if it’s being beamed in from another song. Colin Greenwood’s searching bass notes are never settled, always yearning for resolution that isn’t forthcoming.
As the song progresses, the airiness of the opening verses begins to dissipate as various strange noises enter the picture. Whereas Yorke was easily heard in the beginning, singing in trancelike calm, he has to wail at song’s end, sounding more and more desperate, his mantra, “I’m not here/This isn’t happening” now a cry for help.
Yorke apparently borrowed the refrain from something Michael Stipe told him to help him deal with the stress. But Radiohead turns that line into something more profound, a futile attempt at peaceful sanity in an increasingly intense world. Yorke’s falsetto cries at song’s end cathartically cut through the fog, a moment of triumph over the claustrophobic clutter. But just a moment, because, no matter what the song’s title promises, as you can never disappear enough.
Song 8: "Black Star"
Album: "The Bends"
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No band has ever done a better job at depicting the pressures an individual faces in the modern world than Radiohead. But what gets overlooked, and underrated, is how well they nail relationship issues as well.
Those issues could often be found lurking in the background of songs on "Kid A" or "OK Computer" (and really resurfaced on "In Rainbows"), but they were front and center on the first two albums. “Black Star,” its guitars fading up as we’re thrown right into the middle of the picture, is a small-scale drama rendered with poignancy and eloquent sadness.
It also features a gorgeous melody that builds into an unforgettable chorus, the kind of song that would sound great boiled down to just acoustic guitar and vocal, yet gains heft and power when married to the band’s guitars. Those guitars never get overbearing though, allowing room for the tune to spread its wings while adding numerous hooks to an already catchy mix. It’s a perfectly realized construct, proving that the band understood the dynamics of what makes a memorable song long before they added all of the outré effects that accompanied their deconstructing of rock.
The lyrics prove that you don’t need to be wordy to tell a complete story. I like the way that Yorke keeps everything in the present tense and yet moves the story forward, from the battle and struggle of the first few verses to the subtle yet undeniable admission of defeat in the final verse, as if he’s trapped in an endless loop. Unable to understand why these fissures between the two lovers have cracked wide open, the protagonist blames the problems on forces greater than themselves, because the truth is too painful to face.
Of course Radiohead wouldn’t be Radiohead had they not broadened their concerns and musical palette. But “Black Star” is proof that they could have done just fine singing sad love songs for their whole career.
Song 7: "No Surprises"
Album: "OK Computer"
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What to make of “No Surprises?” Is it a happy ode to the suburbs? A chilling depiction of suicide? The weirdest Beach Boys’ homage ever? All of the above?
What “No Surprises” most certainly does is surprise. When Ed O’Brien’s robotically perfect arpeggio, so clean-sounding that the guitar practically melds with Jonny Greenwood’s glockenspiel, enters the picture, you believe you’re going to get something pristine and clear. Musically, you do, but then Thom Yorke moans out the first line: “A heart that’s full up like a landfill.” Suddenly, the picture isn’t so rosy.
What does it mean when a song that’s so beautiful conveys something so undeniably sad? That you shouldn’t trust the surface of anything. Yorke’s narrator seems to be in an almost blissful state, as opposed to the harried friend he addresses. But what the narrator is, in truth, is numb. The pretty house and garden and the handshake of carbon monoxide are all the same really, just ways to block out the pain, killing him softly.
Of course a life of no surprises is nothing to envy, and the lyrics eventually help to reveal the inherent sadness in the music. “No Surprises” keeps unraveling new layers on each listen, each one more profound then the next, proving it to be one of the most deceptively simple songs you’ll ever hear.
Song 6: "Creep"
Album: "Pablo Honey"
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Off the top of my head, I can’t think of another song that presents such a conundrum to a band’s fans as “Creep” does to backers of Radiohead. It is the song of the band that non-fans know, based on its brief ubiquity in 1993. (Thank you, Messrs Beavis and Butthead.) It’s also nothing like the majority of the music that the band subsequently produced, the music on which the band’s towering reputation has been built, and rightfully so.
The band themselves seem to have made their peace with “Creep,” trotting it out in concert now and again, but only after a long period in which they viewed it as an albatross. Judging by message boards I’ve trolled, fans aren’t quite as forgiving, probably because they feel as though it casts a grungy light on the band to casual observers, making them seem as if they’re forever stuck in flannel and Seattle.
But this list is about the songs, not any baggage that comes along with them. And if you can somehow make yourself listen to it again with fresh ears and hear just how well it accomplishes its objective, then I think you have to admit that “Creep” is a brilliant song that deserves its lofty ranking here.
Thom Yorke channels the pain of every outsider that’s ever felt the sting of rejection into his lyric, a perfectly pitched balance of pie-in-the-sky daydreaming and pitiful self-loathing. The words here are so conversational and unforced that’s it’s easy to miss their subtle excellence. For instance, this guy knows that it’s not enough for this girl to be aware of his presence; he needs to be so integral to her that she mourns his absence: “I want you to notice/When I’m not around.”
What those guitar blasts from Jonny Greenwood provide are blasts of reality. They jar Yorke from the reverie of watching this beautiful girl into the situation in which he’s mired. It also gives the song an edge that nudges it from its Hollies-inspired torpor into unassailable rock glory.
So I understand the issues some of you may have with “Creep.” But it’s time to let them go. The song may not be representative of what Radiohead is today, but that doesn’t make it any less f***in special.
Song 5: "A Wolf at the Door"
Album: "Hail to the Thief"
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When you look at the albums of Radiohead, the band has always proven a knack for picking just the right songs to close them out. To me, none can match up to “A Wolf at the Door” for the haunting way it sends "Hail to the Thief" to it’s not-so-gentle goodnight.
It’s always presumptuous to call a piece of work autobiographical, but the stream-of-consciousness nightmare coming out of the mouth of Thom Yorke certainly sounds like it came from somewhere deep inside of his own worst fears. Radiohead once named a song “Subterranean Homesick Alien” as an homage to Bob Dylan, but “Wolf” is the closest lyrical descendant to “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” with torrents of words pouring from Yorke, one phrase linking to the other in increasingly macabre fashion.
Instead of a jaunty electric jangle to accompany this rapid wordplay, Jonny Greenwood composed a woozy waltz, making the proceedings somewhat more sinister. Yorke has said that this song was the product of a nervous breakdown, and that doesn’t seem like exaggeration when you delve into those lyrics.
Every once in a while the humanity breaks out from behind the nihilistic barrage. At the end of the first verse, Yorke advises himself “Don’t look in the mirror/At the face you don’t recognize,” a stark admission at how all of these horrible events that he has described in deadpan have changed him. In the last verse, Yorke asks for a shred of mercy: “Oh I wish you’d get up/Go over get up go over and turn this tape off.”
Release, relative release anyway, comes in the form of the chorus, as Yorke relates in a lilting melody how hard it is to keep the “wolf at the door” at bay. That wolf represents the dark side in everyone’s psyche that can get loose when all of the external forces become too overbearing. We’ve all got one, and it’s important to find outlets for such possibly destructive energy. I would recommend Radiohead’s ridiculously amazing music as just such an outlet.
Song 4: "Exit Music (for a Film)"
Album: "OK Computer"
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Shakespeare speaks of a “glooming peace” that falls over the scene after the deaths of his two young lovers in "Romeo and Juliet." But Radiohead shatters that peace in “Exit Music” with a piercing scream of youthful independence, proof that, even in death, love is stronger than any opposing force of negativity.
Thom Yorke understands the generation gap at the heart of the conflict here, which is why he contrasts the lovers talk, all gentle and sighing, with the abrasive sneer the protagonist shows to the naysaying elders. It’s like two different songs, but the music brings them together effortlessly to make them one complete statement.
When you hear the song, it’s fascinating to note how there is no real line of separation between the opening part when the two lovers are plotting their escape and the closing parts, when, from the line about “everlasting peace,” we can infer that they’re already dead. I don’t think it’s too far to leap then to say that the earlier section is written from the perspective of Romeo as he lays dying next to Juliet. That would explain the admonition to her to “keep breathing” and the final line before the music gets heavy, “There’s such a chill, such a chill.”
Then the fuzz bass and drums enter the picture, shattering the reverie with a blast of aggression that matches Yorke’s shift to uncontained hatred. It builds to that explosive climax, Yorke singing with every ounce of power he has as the music swirls and crashes all around him.
I’m a Shakespeare fan, have read "Romeo and Juliet" a bunch of times, have seen a couple movie versions as well as countless pop-culture tributes and homages, and I can say with complete conviction that, for me, nothing has ever come as close to matching the spirit and brilliance of Shakespeare’s original work as “Exit Music (for a Film)” does. That’s really all that needs to be said in praise of this song.
Song 3: "Paranoid Android"
Album: "OK Computer"
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It was as if they decided that they needed a song that could properly describe the essence of Radiohead to a stranger (or an alien, perhaps) in one fell swoop. So they distilled everything that makes them great, the energy, the beauty, the experimentation, the abrasiveness, the gentleness, the fearlessness, the fears, the transcendence of those fears, the songwriting, the musicianship, the uniqueness, the utter, unadulterated brilliance, the whole ball of wax, into one crazy, untamable beast of a song.
Ladies and gentlemen, “Paranoid Android.”
Actually, it’s at this point you should cue up the song, because no amount of my bloviating can ever quite capture the manic grandeur of this recording. I don’t know if it was bravery on the band’s part or just that they didn’t think it through, but even attempting such a song with such a ridiculous degree of difficulty could have been a folly of epic proportions.
They ran the risk of being called prog rock, at which point all ambitions to critical acceptance are beyond hope. They certainly ran the risk of befuddling those fans who only knew them from “Creep.” And they ran the risk of just screwing the damn thing up and ending up with a big, pretentious mess on their hands.
But, of course, they didn’t. The two most obvious comparisons, The Beatles’ “Happiness Is A Warm Gun” and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” don’t quite match up to Radiohead’s opus. You know I love me some Beatles, but “Happiness,” as subversively excellent as it is, doesn’t meld with the cohesion of “Android.” And “Rhapsody,” while certainly a lot of fun, doesn’t really hold up that well to repeated listens, the over-the-top cheekiness eventually wearing thin.
No, Radiohead wins this battle, hands-down. As unhinged as the lyrics may seem, there is a consistent thread of dread running through them, the feeling that all of these seemingly unreal acts of tyranny and fascism are committed on a smaller scale every single day. The edgy unease of the opening two sections’ music speaks well to this feeling. Colin Greenwood does a brilliant job in the transition between the first two parts of holding things together, but then brother Jonny comes in with a guitar solo that rends everything to pieces.
That leads to the spine-chillingly and unexpectedly beautiful third section, the Gregorian-chant pace working subtle magic on our defenses that have already been battered by the first two parts. Thom Yorke delivers some of his best singing here, pleading for redemption from on high only to be rebuffed by another version of himself snapping him back to reality.
One final wash of guitars cleans everything away, leaving just rubble in its wake. Of all the things that “Paranoid Android” could have been, it’s what it actually turned out to be that is most shocking of all: Inspiring, frustrating, bewildering, bemusing, confounding, comforting, rocking, and, ultimately, surprisingly, against all odds, moving. Yeah, I’d say that sums up Radiohead pretty well.
Song 2: "Fake Plastic Trees"
Album: "The Bends"
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So how do you express anything real in a world of artificiality run amok? How can two people connect in any meaningful way amidst all the clutter and detritus of everyday life, all of the things that distract and distort and delude you without your ever really being aware of it happening until it’s far too late? How can you say, “I love you” when no one can really, truly hear it?
Those are the questions that dwell at the heart of “Fake Plastic Trees,” the song that marked Radiohead’s transition from shot-in-the-dark newcomers to the status of rock preeminence that they still hold today. I knew it the moment that I heard this song that they were headed in that direction, and I frantically passed the word around to anyone who would listen at the time.
I can’t say why the band’s American popularity didn’t take off with this release; in the U.S., they were still by-and-large the “Creep” band until the release of "OK Computer" blew everything up. Maybe people thought that the song followed the template of “Creep” too closely, but a closer listen reveals that “Fake Plastic Trees” takes that narrow quiet-loud framework and improves upon it immensely with subtle touches like the strings and the moaning Hammond organ that add color and depth to the proceedings.
Speaking of depth, the lyrical depth shown on “Plastic” also puts the band’s previous output and, in truth, everything in rock at the time (and since, really) to shame. The characterizations are sharp. The black humor is cutting (especially the nail-on-the-head plastic surgery lines). The malaise that has infected the souls of these people is palpable.
What ultimately sells the song though, and allows it to transcend all of its myriad excellent elements and become something that affects the listener on a much more profound level, is the vocal performance of Thom Yorke. He takes that deceptively simple melody and imbues it with little twists and turns that bring out heretofore unreachable layers of sadness. Whereas on “Creep” he sounds like an expert actor playing a part, he lives inside this character, feeling his frustration, his weariness, his hurt, and then allowing those emotions to spill unconsciously into the vocal.
The thundering final verse, with the guitars joining Yorke in soaring up, ever higher, in a vain attempt to break through the constraints, is the essence of catharsis; maybe he can “blow through the ceiling” after all. But then it all crumbles back down to the lonely singer, at his most achingly vulnerable, giving voice to the hypothetical yet impossible hope that could solve all his problems: “If I could be who you wanted/All the time, all the time.”
This kind of performance (one which allegedly caused the singer to break down in tears at its completion) is why we listen to music, why we expose ourselves to any kind of art for that matter, in the hopes that its infinite power can make us feel something inside of ourselves that we didn’t even know existed, even if it is a feeling of sadness. Because, lest we forget, to feel is to live. The most endearing quality of “Fake Plastic Trees” is the way it serves as a heartbreakingly eloquent reminder of this simple truth.
Song 1: "Let Down"
Album: "OK Computer"
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Is it the most well-known Radiohead song? Not by a long shot. Is it emblematic of the bulk of their work? Not so much really. Is it a summation of all of the themes that they’ve highlighted throughout their career? Maybe somewhat, but even that’s a stretch.
So why “Let Down” as the best Radiohead song ever? Because it’s perfect. Simple as that. To these ears, there is not a moment of “Let Down” that could ever be improved upon. Whereas some songs, a precious few, give me chills at certain moments, “Let Down” belongs to an even more select group, maybe less than a handful, that give me chills all the way through. And since this is ultimately a personal list, “Let Down” had to be the one.
Now if anyone is willing to try and fault with this choice, I’d ask you to try and find fault with the song first. If you can, then I’ll hear you out. For the nearly 5 minutes of its existence, “Let Down” glides by so smoothly, so unerringly, that it hardly seems like any time has passed. And when those final blips stop at the end of the song, the only letdown I feel is the disappointment that it’s over.
Before I go overboard (I know, that train has probably already sailed), let’s analyze a little, shall we? At its narrowest level, “Let Down” is about travel, the utter lack of control we have as we’re being bandied about from train to plain to car and the desensitization that on-the-go life causes.
But you don’t need to be have amassed thousands of frequent-flier miles (no offense, George Clooney) to find this song relevant. Because what “Let Down” is really about is the speed at which our life passes us by. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who says that they feel like their life is going by slowly. A day perhaps, or a week maybe crawling by, I’ll give you. But have you ever heard somebody say, “Boy, it seems like the kids’ childhood is just dragging along?” Or how about “Geez, these 20’s are taking forever. When am I going to be 60 already?”
No, you hear stuff like “It seems like yesterday” or “Where has the time gone?” “Let Down” goes beyond those clichés to explore the way that modern life can speed you up, whether it’s by keeping you constantly on the go so you fail to appreciate the time you have, or by putting so much pressure on you that you desensitize yourself, by “clinging on to bottles,” perhaps.
And at the heart of all of that is disappointment, the “Is this all there is?” feeling that creeps inside all of us at one point. Thom Yorke’s lyrics posit that society frowns upon those who ask for more: “Don’t get sentimental/It always ends up drivel.”
Of course, none of this would matter were the music not so perfectly poised to deliver this message. I don’t know of another better band performance than the one they give us on “Let Down.” Jonny Greenwood’s precision strokes at the start of the song get you rolling on the conveyor belt. Brother Colin delivers some of his most melodic bass, underpinning the song with bittersweet notes. Phil Selway is more the aggressor here, trying to beat his way through the doldrums. All on different paths, and yet they bond without a crack.
In the bridge, Ed O’Brien keeps things cool and collected with his flawless guitar lines, only to have Jonny Greenwood bring some chaos to the order with a solo that seems beamed in from another song. Shortly after, arcade-like computer noises enter the fray, all the better to symbolize our lives as human pinballs.
When the bass and drum come crashing back in with gusto, you just know we’re set up for a classic Radiohead finish, and, boy, is this one a mother. Yorke is now singing with barely-contained ferocity, his voice arcing up as we expect the same chilling lines from earlier in the song: “One day, I’m gonna grow wings/A chemical reaction/Hysterical and useless,” lines that represent the utter testament to futility. Those lines do reappear, but Yorke also leaves the corporeal world behind to wail out, “You know where you are.” As simple as that line sounds, the way his voice cuts into it, it feels like a triumph, however brief.
And there you have it. I talked about “Let Down” being a perfect song, in my opinion, but what has struck me most in doing this list is how there isn’t much to complain about with the Radiohead catalog in general. I really had to look for stuff with which to find fault, and I often came up lacking. For a band whose material is as diverse as Radiohead’s is, and considering their reckless abandon when it comes to pushing the boundaries of their music, that’s really saying something.
This list has been a joy to compile, and if it gives someone an excuse to revisit the music of Radiohead, or maybe to explore it for the first time (lucky you!), then it will certainly have been worthwhile.
