Radiohead, OK Computer

Pop music is a preposterous art form; I can’t think of another where works can become instant classics. The whole idea of dubbing something classic implies that it has stood the test of time – that archaeologists won’t stumble upon it in two thousand years and be confounded. Rarely is genius, beauty, and greatness recognized in its own time – it’s usually stoned, actually. But instant gratification is the nature of the popular beast, and Beethoven is rolling over in his grave. In pop music, you get instant classics.

Radiohead’s 1997 release, OK Computer, is one such example. When it arrived in the early summer of that year, preceded by a bizarre cartoon video for the leadoff single depicting mermaids, self-mutilated politicians, and UFOs, it was instantly hailed by critics and fans alike as one of the greatest rock records in a long time. In the midst of grunge dying its first death, silly and stupid pop-punk ruling the airwaves, and rap stars killing each other over who knows what, Radiohead made a record borrowing from 70′s prog-rock, the density of Pet Sounds, and the scope of Dark Side of the Moon, throwing in a healthy dose of technophobia to give the album an overarching and relevant theme. Yet, all of that really doesn’t add up to this album, and really doesn’t explain how the band arrived at the record. All of the hype was hysterical nonsense, and after five years (has it been that long?) OK Computer has reached far past all the name-dropping and musical recipe derivations. It allowed one to be curious about rock music again, and made the music more than an excuse to throw yourself with reckless abandon into the person next to you. In short, it made the music wonderful again.

The cover of OKC cannot be overlooked and shuffled off like you should any given Creed album. The album artwork IS art. Highways leading into a fuzzy oblivion, ghostly silhouettes, and the “Lost Child” pasted clippings blend together in a fragmented manner. None of the artwork really appears to be finished. It’s as if scrapbooks were scoured, magazines were scourged, and someone went crazy with neutral crayons. The airline warnings, grafitti, cryptic messages about government officials, and various nonsenical expressions all amount to a feeling of metropolitan paranoia before the first note is even played.

“Airbag” tears off with an orchestral guitar riff, trading off the lead with various strings and electronic noises. The drums are sampled in a punchy loop, and the song is made wholly astounding by Thom Yorke’s passive/aggressive shift between superhuman strength – “In an interstellar burst/I am back to save the universe” – and human fragility – “I’m amazed that I survived/An airbag saved my life.” The song dissolves into fresh distortion, and leads into the odd-timed “Paranoid Android,” one of the album’s masterpieces. In all reality two songs segued together, it’s first a mysterious and funky acoustic number, then a rock jam, then a mournful and angry lament – “the crackle of pigskin/the dust & the screaming/the yuppies networking/the panic” – all building into one last happy jam. And we are all left with big smiles on our faces.

“Subterranean Homesick Alien” dangles in the atmosphere where blue sky and black space meet, “Exit Music (For a Film)” rebelliously retells the story of two forbidden lovers, “Let Down” jingle-jangles introspectively around a sentimental but elegant guitar riff, and “Karma Police” reconstructs it all into a number recalling the Beatles’ White album. By the end of song six, Yorke is explaining “For a minute there/I lost myself,” as if to say that it’s alright, he’s all back to normal.

And then you get your “normal.” As “Karma Police” ends, it trips and dissipates into one of the strangest tracks Radiohead, or any other pop music group for that matter, has ever recorded. “Fitter Happier” is not exactly a song; it’s more like digital poetry. But without a doubt, it defines this album. It serves as a checklist for modern man, complacent and comfortable, good citizen that he is:

Slower and more calculated;
No chance of escape;
Now self-employed;
Concerned (but powerless);
An empowered & informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism);
Will not cry in public….

A few years earlier, Billy Corgan sang, “Despite all my rage/I am still just a rat in a cage….” For Radiohead, we are more like “pigs on antibiotics.” I’ll let you ponder that one.

The rest of the songs are equally brilliant. “Electioneering” is an ironic rant against impersonal politicks, “No Surprises” dumps the listener in an Orwellian but cozy pit of despair and alienation (you must see the video for this song, too), “Climbing Up the Walls” amounts to a bizarre and frightening update of “Every Breath You Take” built around a trip-hop beat (and is the musical masterpiece of the album), and “Lucky” leaves the listener “standing on the edge.” But it’s the closer that does it. For a band that has never had a bad closing song, they really outdo themselves with “The Tourist.” It is a warm, guitar-driven song, taking its time and exhorting the listener, “Hey, man/Slow down.”

And that’s the best Radiohead can do. It would be sad to me if, after such an honest and difficult process as this album must have been, all I was left with was “Make sure you stop and smell the flowers along the way.” But Radiohead has explored everything here, and found it empty, as Solomon found it all vanity. There was the deflated pride, the paranoia, silly and lonely escapism, the tragic end of romance, the limpness of sentimentality…. Trust me, the list goes on. But Solomon, after his journey, had something to which he could return.

It should be apparent to anyone by now that OK Computer defines what it means to be a broken human being. “Full up like a land-fill.” “Comfortable.” “More productive.” To the biblically grounded observer, it is all too obvious what is missing. God is completely absent. Sure, Yorke might invoke the oft-quoted word “God,” but only in a sneer. But Christians, what has Yorke laid in our laps (albeit unknowingly) with this album? Twelve astounding insights into what it means to be a man in a world defined by Nietschze and his dooming pronouncement. Just as the world, as seen in OK Computer, desperately needs Christ, Christians who care anything about engaging the lost at the Areopagus (and, might I add, understanding themselves) desperately need this album. It is profound.

Of course, in the end, the chaff will be sifted from the wheat, as the pastorally inclined are sure to lean back, nod, and tell you. There will indeed be true classics of the nutty ol’ pop culture of the 20th and 21st centuries. I have a few ideas of my own for records that have not been recognized in their own time. I’ll stick ‘em in a time capsule for safe-keeping, but not OKC. I’m convinced it will remain the defining record of the 1990s and one of the greatest guitar rock records ever produced. It will remain in my 8-track player for years to come.

Related Links:
  Buy OK Computer at Amazon.com