Radiohead: Kid A Review
At the time of writing, Kid A is 24 years old. Numerous outlets have called it the best album to come out in the 2000s. The album achieved the rare "Post [x]" label, like the Ramones before them, coloring the discussion of musics to be "Post Kid A" style. Since then, you can see a line in the sand between the Punk fans and the Electronic fans of their music, living in harmony. Today, it's overplayed to even simply ask what left is to say of Kid A. Close to a decade ago, I asked myself that question as I sat down to compile my own thoughts.
I wasn't as "understanding" of music at the time. The things I said, I don't agree with anymore. I called it "weird stuff" and referenced Daft Punk. Yeah, they're not entirely dissimilar, but really, they don't share much more than a genre. I also referenced the opening track twice to describe it, but that's the one part that I truly still agree with fully. Everything really was in the right place.
I mean that in more than one way, now that more years have passed.
Kid A was part of the beginnings of my desire to listen to music as a hobby. In high school I hadn't much experience with music as a whole, so college was an ear-opener for me. I definitely didn't understand everything I listened to, but I tried. I couldn't make sense of why Coldplay was an uncool choice of music, I still really liked the Hush Sound, and I was convinced Muse rocked harder than anyone had ever rocked. Then I listened to the Raconteurs, Vampire Weekend, and Radiohead. It was in the right place for me.
As the fourth album for Radiohead, what was presented to fans was nothing short of alien. It's now easy to see that it was the right choice for the band, though, as their first three albums had explored just about as far as they could with being straight grunge. Thom and company were probably ready to...not grow up really, but tackle what bothered them in ways their previous records weren't. Masamune Shirow may have embraced the future, but Radiohead seemed to be reluctantly submissive of our collective permanent internet connection. As we all breathed a sigh of relief that our computers didn't melt on January 1, Yorke's bleak outlook of the future was delivered to us at what felt like the peak of our transitionary phase.
As mentioned, I still hold on to the album being perfectly organized. It's something I think a lot of artists struggle with. Part of that will always be bias; in the early days of online playlist making, I accidentally ordered the songs in MGMT's Oracular Spectacular incorrectly, and ended up preferring my order far more than the official. When it's done right, your emotional connection with the music is ready for what's being sent next; you wouldn't watch a TV series in the wrong order, right?
Radiohead went further than just correct track order though. Ok Computer began a sonic shift for the band, poking holes in the near-constant dirtiness of their grunge sound. Especially in Phillip Selway's drumlines, you could see an intent to push towards uneven time signatures and complicated patterns. It wasn't until Kid A that those motifs would find a fitting home. From that less arena-ready performative foundation, the rest of the music had something to build on that didn't require the emotion of the bandmates to elevate the music.
In less capable hands, that would end up sounding stoic, inhuman, or even musicless. But like the best orchestral arrangements, it's all about the what and the when. Where their peers were continuing to display the emotions they had, Radiohead offloaded that job to the listener, presenting dissonance in lyrical construction, emotional resonance, held notes, and unconventional instruments. It's one thing to say you feel empty, jaded, or numb; it's another thing entirely to have your listener come to that conclusion about themselves.
It's an interesting thing to call Kid A particularly clean, but when you compare it to their previous work, it's a fair label (at least until you listen to even later stuff from them). There are long stretches of very clean, crisply recorded vocals, percussion, guitar, and synthesized sounds. The most traditional grungy sounds you can find are on The National Anthem, Optimistic, and Idioteque. The rest is the aforementioned grunge "in spirit", going the direction of Aphex Twin to achieve that humanless, generated sound.
The songs don't inherit that humanlessness despite this production. The first track juxtaposes its title by seemingly resolving the chord before switching to dissonance by the end of the measure, while the lyrics move between nonsense, repetition, and confused questioning. The next song, for which the album is named, whirrs up to a double-tone pattern like a binary clock ticking off time. The lyrics are almost incomprehensible, referencing children's stories in the most unsettling way. The National Anthem sings metallicly, about the closeness of the crowd as the music both keeps pace and descends into manic horns.
Interviews with Thom Yorke since have not made interpreting the album as a concept any easier. How to Disappear Completely is a mantra he told himself while stressed on tour, and Optimistic contains lines his partner told him when he was frustrated about the quality of his music. There's a lot of art that's like this; the intent is different than the reception, and the reception is different for everyone. For me, I don't actually think he had the intent of admonishing the new tech age (although he's not afraid to attack it), but it's hard to listen to the record without thinking that it sounds like doomscrolling or a day spent in a corporate cubicle. "I'm not here. This isn't happening", Yorke wails. "Everyone around me is so near." These lines interspersed with nonsense lines, ear-filling tones, and minor keys paint a picture of someone struggling to maintain their attention.
Even though I, and many others, have labeled it "electronic", it's not really. It's certainly not dance music, and I would hesitate to even call it experimental. This is a rock album, and more importantly, it's a Radiohead album. The more you listen to it, the less it shows itself as a betrayal of their sound, fans, or selves. It's not a sellout--it's catharsis.
Almost unsettlingly, it's hard not to get sucked in. The melodies, drumwork, and production pull at each other between totally unique (therefore impenetrable) and played out (therefore boring) where it's almost familiar and almost foreign. It even opens and closes with soundbytes similar to an operating system starting up and shutting down, drawing you in and setting you free. It's beautiful, if you allow yourself to appreciate what it's done.
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