The King of Limbs is Radiohead's eighth album of original material, and to these ears, their most immediately satisfying since Kid A. It is, for all its sombre notes and pulsing movements, a fluidly compelling brace of songs, which ebbs and flows beautifully, and in a contentedly life-affirming way. But make no mistake; this is not Radiohead on autopilot. In fact, they sound more engaged in their work than ever, and full to the brim with confidence in their own abilities.
A word on the release itself: Radiohead have scaled back the "pay what you like" price experimentation that accompanied the release of In Rainbows, and have instead opted for a fixed price download. Or if you like, you can also order a deluxe package which contains (as well as an mp3 version) a compact disc, two 10 inch (clear) vinyl albums, and assortment of newspaper-related paraphernalia, and possibly a papier mache arm chair. Good on them, I reckon.
Whilst Radiohead continue to try and find new and/or interesting ways to present their music to their fans, such acts would ring rather hollow if the music itself were not of commensurate value. Fortunately, it is. If we consider the album's opening track as a portent of all that follows, then I think the album's style comes into fairly sharp focus. It begins with "Bloom", which sounds like a mash up between Philip Glass and the soundtrack to Bladerunner. Thom Yorke, possibly recalling a trip to the dentist, begins with the lyric, "open your mouth wide", but follows it with, "the universal sigh", which perhaps suggests a yawn. But as the lyric turns to the power and restorative beauty of the ocean, the listeners can perhaps infer that in the midst of weary self (or societal) examination, there is something actually rather life-affirming at the core of this album. The song moves to a beautifully layered coda, which, in its own intense way, is up there with the most calmly joyous music that Radiohead has produced.
The second song, "Morning Mr Magpie" works within a familiarly twitchy sonic palate, but eschews the previously oft-generated sense of unease so favoured by the band to reveal, of all things, a song which sounds uncannily like what one might get if Radiohead were to cover a circa-Rubber Soul Beatles track in their own inimitable style. Put another way, it is the song, rather than the style, that most attracts the listener.
"Little By Little" further extends this fusion of the familiar and the unfamiliar. Its minor (and modal) chords are offset by what I can only describe as what Kraftwerk might sound like if asked to play in a Mariachi style. Quirky, but entirely of a piece with the album proper. And it's by this song, I think, that it becomes clearer that Yorke's lyrics on The King of Limbs are more straightforward and more accessible than on previous albums. They recall the simple symbolism of Roger Waters' words on Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon; an album hardly lacking in angst, but also lacking neither warmth nor universal appeal. I'm not suggesting that The King of Limbs is going to be quite so popular as Floyd behemoth, but it is a surprisingly accessible album, given its sonic stylings.
"Feral", the album's fourth song, is highly percussive, with heavily treated and edited vocals. Almost wordless (if certainly not an instrumental), its rhythms are hypnotically appealing. It segues (in terms of mood) seamlessly into "Lotus Flower", which along feels like the album's highpoint. It's a genuinely soulful song, with Yorke's voice soaring effortlessly above subtly propulsive instrumentation. "Codex", with stately, Rick Wright-styled piano chords, again suggest a Pink Floyd parallel. But the song's feel is actually more redolent of the Australian artist, David Bridie, and his two remarkable solo albums, Act of Free Choice and Hotel Radio. Tonally, the song is a beautifully wistful lament, with Yorke employing what sounds like his most natural and unaffected singing in years. It ends with birdsong.
The albums final two songs (there are only eight in total) bring things to a thoughtful and gentle close. The penultimate track, "Give Up the Ghost" is a bona-fide English Pastoral. The potentially desparing lyric - in the style it is rendered - actually suggest of mood of release and relief, rather than resignation. This mood, via a shift (yet again) in style, flows into the final song, "Separator". It's probably the album's weakest track, musically, but it still has a warm sense of hopefulness and discovery.
Honestly, it's quite exhilarating to hear a band of this stature risking such aural inventiveness on their eighth album. When I first listened to the Kid A album, I was mesmerised. It was one of the very, very few times in my life where I've felt like I was listening to a musical event; a genuine shifting in the musical landscape. The King of Limbs is not quite an album of that calibre or that significance, but it is still an extraordinarily good (and important) piece of work, from a band that is still unequivocally one the most talented in the world. It's a confident, hopeful and consistently surprising celebration of an album. A quiet celebration, certainly, and, best of all, a quiet triumph, too.
Long live the King.
No comments:
Post a Comment