we have lift-off
by Jim Irvin; US material by Barney Hoskyns
// Mojo, 9/1997
:: scanned by nanakey
February 1992. The Melody Maker's young Oxford
correspondent pops up Cowley Road to the old Co-Op dining hall, a
glamour-free venue — small stage at one end, Formica-topped
table with a barrel of Red Stripe clamped to it at the other —
where The Candyskins are headlining with support from another local
bunch with the unappetising name On A Friday. In the following week's
paper he'll write of the latter: «Terrible name. Apt for beer-gutted
pub-rockers, but ill-suited to the astonishing intensity of this bunch.
On A Friday swing between uneasy calm and crazed desperation, hinting
at extremes that belie their moniker... They leave us with a speeding
hymn to megalomania entitled Nothing Touches Me — a perfect
example of their manic melodic charms, and an indication of credible
self-confidence. 'Promising' seems something of an understatement».
The writer was student John Harris (these days the editor of Select
magazine) and the band, newly signed to EMI, were about to take his
advice and change their name...
It's Thursday May 22, 1997, a searing summer's
day in the Catalonian capital. Three things are creating a buzz in
Barcelona this morning: the pavements are sprouting strange kiosks
for some Spanish business festival, students are marching in protest
down Las Ramblas, and a top pop group are in town for the launch of
their third album. Los Radiohead have been here since Monday, following
warm-up shows in Lisbon, Portugal. They spent yesterday talking to
press and TV insects swarming here from all over the globe and tonight,
at the modest Zeleste Club, they'll perform for the official European
unveiling of the masterful OK Computer.
Thom Yorke is in the foyer of the Hotel Condes
des Barcelona. He's dressed as an affluent tourist from Ursa Major:
shiny slate-coloured zip-up top, rucksack, baggy trouserings in some
unnameable man-made fabric, and huge hi-tech trainers that look as
if he's stepped into a couple of hovercrafts. He's with his close
friend Dan, the man responsible for all Radiohead's artwork, and is
due any minute at an Internet press-conference linking Australasia,
South America and Dubai. In the meantime, MOJO asks a stupid question:
Why Barcelona? A single Yorke eyebrow is raised above his yellow shades,
«Why do you fucking think?» it says, though its owner
remains silent.
The virtual chinwag is a wash-out. The system crashes
within minutes. All the band except Thom are ushered on to an MTV
interview. The Radiohead juggernaut is going gently into overdrive
and the world's media are queuing up to throw themselves in its path.
I his is the story of its journey from the Oxfordshire countryside
to the world's largest stages by the people in the engine room. Cue
the wobbly screen and let's flashback...
Thom E. Yorke (as he was billed early on) was born
October 7, 1968. By the time he arrived at Abingdon public school
he was already the veteran of a pre-pubescent art-pop duo (Thom on
guitar, friend demolishing televisions). At a sagely 14, Yorke, who
says he spent most of his free time secreted in the school's soundproofed
music rooms, began singing («because no-one else would»)
in the school punk band TNT, where his contemporary Colin Greenwood
also threw a few shapes.
When TNT imploded, Thom offered Colin the chance
to play bass in a band he was forming with the tall, handsome chap
in the year above who looked a bit like Morrissey: Ed O'Brien. A sixth-former,
who looked nothing like Morrissey but had a drum kit, was also asked
to join. Thom's first words to Phil Selway were momentous: «Can't
you play a bit faster?»
Colin's brother Jonny wanted in too. The kind of
musical genius who can get a tune out of a cheese roll, he was still
only a third year. And an oik from the third can crimp a fourth-former's
cool, as any fule kno. So it was a four and a half man line-up of
On A Friday which debuted at Oxford's Jericho Tavern as early as 1987.
(Jonny hanging about with his harmonica just in case.) But any serious
tilt at stardom was to be forestalled by largely unenthusiastic parents
and the call of further education.
Meanwhile, in the village of Sutton Courtenay,
near Abingdon, Courtyard Studios was coming down around the owners'
ears. In their mid-thirties in 1987, two former members of a band
called Aerial FX, Chris Hufford (guitar, bass, vocals) and Bryce Edge
(keyboards) became part of a partnership running an ambitious complex
of hi-tech business units and matching houses designed to bring IT-age
living to Oxfordshire almost a decade before it became fashionable
or, indeed, totally feasible. At its core was a recording studio.
By 1990 the project was in serious trouble and the studio was running
at a loss. When the partnership crumbled, Chris and Bryce managed
to rent the purpose-built studio space from the new owners. A long
session with local band Slowdive saved the business and they began
to hatch plans for a production company.
One afternoon, a young man named John Butcher,
a close friend of Chris's assistant, came into Courtyard with a demo
tape. It was the complete works of a band which featured two of Butcher's
classmates, Thom Yorke and Colin Greenwood. «You couldn't hear
any one band on it. Out of all those Oxford bands, there were no performers
of great songs. But Thom was incredible. Brilliant songs with the
amazing power of the three guitars. I could see it on a world level,
even then,— Hufford says now of his first taste of On A Friday.—
There were some good tunes but it was all obviously ripped off mercilessly».
He might have ignored it were it not for the 15th track. «It
was a weird looped-up dance tiling which was completely mental but
had something about it that was very different. I asked if they had
anything else. After about six months John brought in another tape
with Stop Whispering and What's That You Say on it. These were great
songs. Now they had an identity».
That summer of 1991 the band had finished university
but for Jonny, who was just about to start a psychology course at
Oxford Poly. The time seemed right to see if they could take On A
Friday any further. When Hufford expressed interest in the new tape
they invited him to a gig at the Jericho Tavern. John Harris recalls
Oxford's musical community of the time: «It was a funny scene,
very separate from the university — bands like Ride, Slowdive,
Swervedriver and 5.30 — and centred around the Jericho, a record
shop called Manic Hedgehog and a magazine called Curfew, which put
On A Friday on the cover very early on. There was a pub called The
New Inn on the Cowley Road where bands swapped tips and so on».
Harris had been aware of On A Friday long before he actually saw them,
«There's always someone in a band that takes on a quasi-managerial
role and for them it was Ed. He sent me a couple of letters —
on On A Friday notepaper — saying 'I'm in this group, come and
see us'. To be honest, I ignored them».
Hufford, however, turned up. «I was completely
and utterly blown away. Out of all those Thames Valley bands of the
time there were no performers or great singers but Thom was incredible.
Brilliant songs with the amazing power of the three guitars. I made
a complete buffoon of myself, bursting backstage saying, I've got
to work with you! I was so excited by them. They had fantastic: energy!
I could see it on a world level, even then».
MEANWHILE, a former musician from Gloucester was
coming to the end of his time as a sales rep for EMI records. Keith
Wozencroft had just been offered a job in A&R at Parlophone. On his
farewell visit to the Oxford branch of Our Price he told the personable
young man named Colin behind the counter of his new post. «You
should sign my band»,— said Colin Greenwood, handing him
On A Friday's demo. Struck by the tape's diversity and the singing,
Wozencroft went to see the band at an open-air gig in an Oxford park.
«There was no-one there in this little tent apart from a couple
ol their girlfriends. But they played really well. I left a message
with the sound guy that it was great and kept in touch over the next
few months».
A booker at Bath Moles Club, Jan Brown, sent the
same tape to an agent, Charlie Myatt at ITB in London, recommending
the band to him. «I went and visited them in some sort of cowshed,—
says Myatt.— I was very impressed by their intelligence and
started to get them gigs».
On A Friday were the first thing Keith Wozencroft
took into his boss, EMI A&R director (and former sax player with Dexy's
Midnight Runners), Nick Gatfield. Having once been signed to EMI themselves,
Chris and Bryce also had contacts at the label. When the full EMI
team finally turned up to a Jericho Tavern show, almost every major
label was present.
«Because I was new to the role it never occurred
to me that the band might go with anyone else,— recalls Wozencroft,
who took on direct responsibility for the band.— Gatfield put
a good offer in straight away and it was fine. We didn't mess around».
On A Friday had a deal. They were on the same label as The Beatles.
Thought they'd intended to be a production team,
it seemed only logical that Chris Hufford and Bryce Edge should become
the band's managers. «Management had never been an ambition,—
laughs Hufford.— We'd always thought managers were complete
tossers. But we'd learnt a lot. We thought, Let's be management where
you put yourself in the artist's shoes. We were naive about a lot
of the business but we totally believed in the band». A newly-appointed
press officer (the late Philip Hall) finally persuaded John Harris
to make the trip to The Venue and review the show. «News of
their signing had spread and there was a real sense of expectation,—
recalls Harris. In the set at that time were Prove Yourself, Thinking
About You, and I Can't — which would all surface on Pablo
Honey — and a tune glorying in the title Phillipa Chicken.
Though he submitted a positive review, Harris wasn't wholly impressed.—
They looked awful. Thom was wearing a brown crew-necked jumper, had
cropped hair and looked very small, with none of the presence he has
now. Musically they were all over the place. They started with something
Rickenbackery that sounded like 'All Mod Cons'-period Jam,
then they'd flip it with something that sounded like the Pixies. All
the raw material was there but they hadn't found their feet stylistically.
Remember, the context at that time was all shoegazing or fraggle —
so a band who wrote songs like Stop Whispering, compared to Slowdive
or Mega City Four sounded like the work of God».
The review prompted discussion in the band. On
A Friday had been chosen when they were a weekend outfit of jamming
schoolboys. Now they had to concede that the critic had a point: their
name was, at best, mundane. They decided to swap it for the tide of
a cod-reggae tune on Talking Heads' True Stories album, Radio
Head.
The band's relationship with their management was
immediately put under strain. The debut release was an EP produced
by Chris and Bryce. «Not a clever move,— admits Chris.—
A huge conflict of interests. I think Thom was very unsure of my involvement.
I'd had that happen to me as an artist when one of our managers acted
as producer — it was fine until we wanted to develop and move
on — so I was acutely aware of what he was feeling, but I can
be quite overbearing and opinionated in the studio. There was definitely
some friction on that front. Otherwise, it was a treat, we fired out
the songs». The 4-track Drill EP came out in March 1992
with Prove Yourself as the lead track. It reached 101 in the UK singles
chart. It was time to find new producers.
Boston-based production team Paul Q Kolderie and
Sean Slade were in the UK touting for business after Buffalo Tom's
excellent Let Me Come Over album. Nick Gatfield liked the sounds
they'd been getting and played them Stop Whispering, They were impressed.
The band admired their work in return, and Kolderie and Slade were
hired to produce two songs for the next single, Inside My Head and
Lurgee.
«My first impression was that they were desperately
inexperienced,— remembers Kolderie of the rehearsals.—
The other was that we didn't like these songs Parlophone had chosen,
and I don't think the band liked them much either. Inside My Head
was not very melodic, didn't have any of the stuff we thought the
others had, so we were rather disappointed. And then one day in rehearsal,
they burst into this other song, which I guess they'd just written.
When they finished it, Thom mumbled something like, 'That's our Scott
Walker song'.. .except I thought he said, 'That's a Scott
Walker song'. Now I was pretty familiar with Scott Walker, but Jeez,
there's a lot of albums and I could have missed something! We walked
out of the rehearsal that night and Sean said, 'Too bad their best
song's a cover'». That song was Creep.
If you go up the Woodstock road in Oxford and turn
left vou're on Little Clarendon Street. «That's Oxford's Kensington,—
says John Harris,— all tapas bars and Dome Cafes». Turn
right at the same junction and you hit Jericho, an altogether funkier
thoroughfare. «The whole alienation of Oxford is based on mat
little saloon bar scene,— says Harris.— You're either
part of the Little Clarendon Street crowd or the Jericho crowd and
never the twain shall meet. I think Creep was about some girl who
used to frequent the Little Clarendon Street side of things and Thom
thought he'd never have anything to do with that, hence 'What the
hell am I doing here, I don't belong here'».
The single sessions became arduous; no-one liked
what was going down on tape. Having relinquished the production role,
Hufford was particularly irked: «It was overblown bombastic
rock». To raise everyone's spirits, Kolderie suggested they
try putting down «that Scott Walker song». The band recorded
one take of it. «At the end,— remembers Kolderie,—
everyone in the place was silent for a moment and then they burst
into applause. I'd never had that happen before. I called Keith and
said, Maybe you should come down. So he drove to Oxford that night,
listened to it three times, and said, 'Hmmm...' and a couple of weeks
later he called me and told us to work on it some more».
Legend has it that the band weren't unanimously
keen on Creep. Jonny's famous guitar crunches were supposedly an attempt
to ruin a song he didn't like. «Jonny played the piano at the
end and it was gorgeous,— notes Kolderie.— Everyone who
heard Creep just started going insane. So that's what got us the job
doing the album».
Pablo Honey was completed in three weeks.
«It was a bit of a struggle,— admits Kolderie.—
It was their first record and they wanted to be The Beatles, and the
mix had to have no reverb, and they had all the ideas they'd ever
come up with in 20 years of listening to records. But we managed to
get it done». Next came a tour supporting Kingmaker. (Radiohead
came on before a juggler.) Creep was released to coincide in September
1992, while Pablo Honey was scheduled for the new year. Both
bands then performed at that September's EMI UK conference: speeches
and annual reports by day, hair down and rugs up by night, to the
sound of the label's latest acquisitions. Impress the right people
and they'll be inspired to work hard on your behalf.
Cue Carol Baxter, of EMI's international office,
the department responsible for ensuring that EMI's overseas branches
release and promote British signings. «I know nothing about
instruments or drum riffs, or what have you, but this funny little
band came on and they obviously had something. This was a hideous
record company do but Thom gave it everything». Baxter, tired
of the 'priority acts' of the '80s had been considering leaving the
job. «I sat there thinking, I'm not going to leave: I want Radiohead
on my roster! I bumped into Colin and Thom in the corridor after their
performance and I thought they were junkies. Bloody druggies sitting
there in the corridor looking so pale. I asked Thom if he was all
right. He said he was. So I asked if they wanted a drink and all they
wanted was a glass of Coca-Cola. I bought that for them and we got
talking, and I found out they were from Abingdon which is where I'm
from». Baxter began introducing the world to the charms of Radiohead.
Creep came out to an audible shrug; one or two
good reviews, almost no airplay and just enough sales (about 6,000)
to get it to Number78 in the UK charts.
Hufford claims he wasn't too disappointed. «Bryce
and I have always tried to be realistic. We hoped, as you do, that
Creep would be a bigger hit, but at the same time it fitted in with
our concept of where to be at that moment. A giant leap isn't actually
healthy for a band, it needs to grow and understand naturally how
things work».
One unwelcome lesson arrived with the Christmas
1992 issue of NME. The band's first illustrated review of a headlining
gig (at London's Smashed Club) was an absolute stinker. Above four
of the least flattering pictures of Thom Yorke ever printed (Caption:
'UGLEE-OH YEAH! Radiohead Thom gurns his living') ran four scathing
paragraphs dismissing their music, sneering at their audience, calling
the band «mannered beyond belief» and ending on the declaration:
«Radiohead are a pitiful, lily-livered excuse for a rock'n'roll
group».
The review launched an uneasy relationship with
the music press. When Pablo Honey finally appeared, the inkies
were too busy singing the praises of such hot tips as The Auteurs
to give it much of a fanfare. A small Melody Maker feature coinciding
with the album and third single, Anyone Can Play Guitar, depicts the
group running away in a fit of embarrassed giggles when they see someone
approach wearing a Radiohead T-shirt. When asked if he's interested
in being a pop star, Thom scoffs. «Nah. Look at us. We're a
lily-livered excuse for a rock group. We might as well accept the
truth and carry on».
Meanwhile, unbeknown to the band, a radio station
in San Francisco had just named Creep its favourite record of the
year.
Live 105 in San Francisco was one of a string of
Anglophile '80s West Coast radio stations that abetted the American
rise of such poptastic delights as Duran Duran, Depeche Mode and A
Flock Of Seagulls. One of its presenters had found Creep on import
and aired it regularly after an extraordinary phone-in reaction. The
song topped the station's year-end poll and quickly crossed over onto
LA's KROQ and other West Coast stations.
EMI's American labels realised they had a potential
hit. «When you're trying to develop a new band overseas,—
says Carol Baxter,— the main thing you're going to hear from
outside territories is, 'What's the band doing in their own market?'
They don't think there's any point picking up a band unless it's already
a hit somewhere. But Creep broke in Israel first. South-east Asia
took an interest early on too. Finally, Rob Gordon in Capitol's marketing
department became passionate about it».
Suddenly, the realities of being in a breaking
band were made clear to Radiohead. Baxter recalls a nightmarish US
promotional visit. «8am — breakfast with this executive,
1pm — lunch with 55 retailers, solid press interviews in between,
7pm — dinner with this many journalists and, by the way, can
you do a live radio phone-in at 2am? It was a 16-18 hour day with
no breaks. I couldn't handle that. But they managed it. I was sitting
there going grey thinking, I'l never make my bands do this again».
«When Creep went through the roof, Capitol
just wanted to milk it,— says Kolderie.— They were doing
I'M A CREEP contests and placing ads that said BEAVIS AND BUTT-HEAD
SAY THEY DON'T SUCK. I remember Bryce saying, 'This is horrible, it's
looking like a one-hit wonder unless we can save this baby'».
The single eventually peaked at a modest 34 in the US, but Pablo
Honey went gold. Exactly a year after its original release, a
reissued Creep finally hit the UK charts, peaking at Number 7.
_______________
In the US, Capitol were keen to build on the momentum.
Getting Radiohead to support label-mates Duran Duran, poised to tour
the arenas on the strength of their comeback smash Ordinary World,
looked ideal exposure. Despite heavy pressure from the suits, Chris
Hufford decided the band were better off cutting their teeth more
modestly — and more credibly — in support of Belly. That
tour marked the start of an extended period of tension on Planet Radiohead.
Thom spent a significant chunk of his life fielding endless, repetitive
questioning from American journalists about the extent of his creepiness
and whether he'd had a difficult childhood. («Not as tough as
my adulthood's turning out, thanks».) Grinding out performances
of songs they were bored by, and promoting an album they barely liked
began to take its toll on the band's unity. The glare of the American
media also forced them into rash decisions they later regretted. A
glammed-up and heavily styled Thom appeared in a magazine advertisement
for Iceberg jeans. They shot a fashion spread for Interview magazine.
Thom affected hair extensions. Because the album kept on breaking
around the world, the Pablo Honey tour lumbered into its second
year.
«They were finding the process very stressful
and alien and not what they were in it for,— remarks their agent
Charlie Myatt.— The main crisis was coming off the Belly tour.
They were supposed to go straight onto a tour of Europe with James,
and there was a lot of soul-searching about why they were in a group
at all».
«We joined this band to write songs and be
musicians,— said Jonny.— But we spent a year being jukeboxes
instead. We felt in a creative stasis because we couldn't release
anything new».
After much discussion they opted to do the James
tour. «They played like demons all the way through,— says
Myatt.— They got a huge reaction in Spain and Portugal —
those Catholic countries getting into Creep!»
The tension lingered into the recording of the
second album, produced by John Leckie — hired on the strength
of his work with The Stone Roses and Radiohead faves Magazine and
XTC. Leckie was excited by the singing and the three-guitar line-up
but wasn't a fan of Pablo Honey («Too noisy»).
«I liked the straightaheadness of the demos, though,—
he says,— and I thought, This could be easy!»
It wasn't. The edifice marked «follow-up
to Creep» cast a long shadow over the sessions. «It was
either going to be Sulk, The Bends, Nice Dream, or Just,— Leckie
remembers.— We had to give those absolute attention, make them
amazing, instant smash hits, Number 1 in America. Everyone was pulling
their hair out saying, 'It's not good enough!' We were trying too
hard».
«There were pressures on deadline,—
admits Keith Wozencroft.— But accidentally. We'd all sat round
saying, In an ideal world what would be good? Setting a rough agenda.
But being a young band they took that seriously; they were very keen
to achieve the best scenario».
«There was a lot of 'Jonny's got to have
a really special sound',— Leckie remembers.— I said, He's
got one already, but we spent days hiring in different amplifiers
and weird guitars for him. In the end he used what he'd been using
for the last couple of years and I just recorded it straight».
Also on those first sessions at RAK studios was
a young engineer named Nigel Godrich. «I had a great time,—
he laughs,— but I know they felt under pressure. Remember, they
were still relatively inexperienced in the studio and Thom, especially,
found the studio environment difficult, not the best place for being
creative in the way he is. But the tension can lead to things happening.
It's an interesting process but it can be quite a painful one… You
have to go through pains to make great records,— states Leckie.—
Either sweat it or take loads of drugs! Nigel and I had a great time
and [the band] didn't. They'd often go off for meetings, huddling
together in the other room. Perhaps they suddenly realised this is
what they'd be doing with their lives: 'I didn't mean to be in
the same room as you for the next ten years!'»
«I had this profound fear of having so much
to prove,— Thom later admitted.— We knew we had to do
something brilliant, and knew that we could; it was just, Is it going
to happen?»
«That was certainly the lowest point I've
had in my relationship with Thom and I'm sure vice versa,— recalls
Chris Hufford thoughtfully.— Thom became totally confused about
what he wanted to do, what he was doing in a band and in his life,
and that turned into a mistrust of everybody else. I came very close
to saying, I can't be fucked with this any more. I can't be doing
with all this hassle; it's just not worth it. Thankfully, just prior
to me — and Thom — really snapping, it suddenly turned
round».
THE SOLUTION WAS A CHANGE OF SCENERY. Radiohead
quit the studio and toured Australasia and the Far Hast. «It
made them reevaluate what they were good at and enjoyed doing,—
claims Hufford.— Playing live again put the perspective back
on what they'd lost in the studio. Suddenly there was a direction».
Having worked the songs in on the road, they returned to Britain and
completed the album in a fortnight.
«My understanding of Radiohead definitely
improved from that point,— Hufford concludes.— I stopped
talking about product and units and realised that all that didn't
matter. Just make the record you want and then see how it fits into
the scheme of things».
Nevertheless, there remained a good deal of trepidation
about following Creep. Released while The Bends was still
being completed, the first single from the album, My Iron Lung (taken
from a live TV show recorded at London's Astoria), peaked at a disappointing
23. It wouldn't be until the fifth single from the album, Street Spirit,
18 months later, that Radiohead would hit the UK Top 10 again. America
was even more resistant. «People didn't know who Radiohead was
but they knew who Creep was»,— notes Hufford ruefully.
The reaction to The Bends in the US was favourable but unspectacular,
yet it grew from a street and college level to sell well, and steadily,
ever since.
«The Bends was neither an English
album nor an American album,— decides Paul Kolderie.—
It's an album made in the void of touring and travelling. It really
had that feeling of, 'We don't live anywhere and we don't belong anywhere'».
«Spending two years playing the same record
and visiting so many places... a very strange experience,— says
Colin.— And the novelty can carry it over for so long, until
the novelty itself becomes everyday — which is really weird».
«There's a sense of limbo that's really inspiring,—
says Thom.— Everything's taken care of for you, and you become
a functioning organism only when someone plugs you in. It's also very
lonely — but again that's inspiring. Because everything that
happens becomes so acutely important. You're in a white room and there's
only one window and whatever goes past that window takes up your whole
existence. I think we've alwavs worked best in isolation. So there's
this sense on the one hand of being exposed to lots of different stuff
and on the other being in forced isolation to consider it».
IT WAS THIS ATMOSPHERE OF DISLOCATION and transience
that would permeate their next songs. Recorded over a year, OK
Computer became another extended struggle to perfect their methods
of working. They liked the simple way they'd recorded Black Star (on
The Bends) and Lucky (for the Bosnian charity album HELP)
with engineer Nigel Godrich and asked him to build and man a mobile
studio for them. Work began at The Fruit Farm, a converted apple store
the band use as rehearsal space, then moved on to Jane Seymour's Elizabethan
mansion outside Bath (features include terraced gardens, full-sized
ballroom, and framed photos of Jane in her undies in the bathrooms).
With just the band, Godrich and a cook present in the rambling property
they found it intimidating to begin with. «But,— says
Godrich,— we made it our own and developed this real sense of
freedom. We could play croquet in the middle of the night if we wanted!»
Having learnt from The Bends , they decided
to break the songs in live before completing the record. «Radiohead
have displayed a dogged determination to come and tour America and
tour America and tour America,— says Paul Q. Kolderie.—
And not only that, but do all the stuff you have to do, go to those
retail dinners and so on. Thom would sometimes make a bit of a scene,
and he wouldn't always be there, but they've really made the effort
to make friends in the industry. And that reflects a conscious strategy
on the part of Chris Hufford and Bryce Edge».
Between the release of The Bends in March
1995 and the completion of OK Computer earlier this year, Radiohead
toured America no less than five times. Hufford and Edge have followed
the approach of Miles Copeland with The Police and Paul McGuinness
with U2: keep coming back, slogging your way through the boondocks
and college towns, and America will be yours. Says Ed O'Brien: «Because
they became so huge in Britain very quickly, bands like Happy Mondays
and Stone Roses came to America with completely the wrong attitude.
You have to keep touring». Jonny Greenwood agrees: «There
are lots of double standards with British bands when they talk about
America. They like to talk badly about it, yet they want to conquer
it. We're in awe of America».
Radiohead's new material was premiered on a 13-date
American tour supporting Alanis Morissette. Capitol were delighted
with what they were hearing. In those surroundings, new songs like
Electioneering sounded like anthemic US radio hits. They began to
pump up the idea of Radiohead as saviours of stadium rock. «[Capitol]
thought, This album is going to be chock-a-block with radiotastic
singles and we'll just have it away majorly,— laughs Hufford.—
But when the record was finished, Electioneering ended up being this
very abrasive, garagey thing and the other songs [the label] had liked
didn't even make it to the album. There was lots of 'Ooh dear, this
isn't quite what we thought the record was going to be, I have to
say we're a bit disappointed.' But by that time the UK had grabbed
it and said, 'This is fucking awesome!' So we steamed in and said
to America, 'Get your industry heads off, forget the bloody singles,
just listen to it like a punter for a few weeks and you'll realise
what an amazing piece of work it is.' Thankfully, that's what happened.
They started saying, 'You're right, this is amazing, but now what
the fuck do we do with it?!'»
__________
Friday May 23, 1997, Barcelona. Another day of
promotion.
The band assemble in a large suite at the Meridian
Hotel to face today's five-page itinerary of tasks. At 11am Thom is
talking to French magazine Rock & Folk while Jonny meets Christian
Fuchs from Austrian radio, Phil's doing a Belgian newspaper, Ed and
Colin are being interviewed by Austrian magazines. After lunch, while
the others record a bunch of TV slots, Ed wall be chatting to someone
from the German station amusingly known as Radio Fritz.
In the afternoon, a cluster of German journalists
arrive to find that celebrations for Phil Selway's 30th birthday are
taking place. The EMI posse have purchased a cake and Phil personally
hands a slice to each of the patiently queuing media-folk. A TV crew
is filming another TV crew filming a press interview. A photographer
is taking pictures of all the photographers taking pictures.
By the time MOJO's turn comes (we're booked in
at 18.45) everyone's looking a bit frazzled. In the suite that acts
as the Radiohead HQ, Chris Hufford is rolling a restorative spliff
and fielding calls on his mobile, making plans with partner Bryce
Edge — in another part of town — to dine with some very
senior EMI mandarins the following week. As soon as the call is over,
HufFord's mobile goes again.
Carol Baxter, nursing a large gin and tonic, tells
me about a Japanese «Phil Is Great» fan club, a curious
clique of female EMI Japan employees entirely devoted to being nice
to Radiohead's drummer. At their meetings they serve Phil his favourite
foods, then play bingo. Worried about offending the rest of the band,
the club has elected to close itself.
The schedule is running almost an hour late. Thom's
still in with a Swede. Chris is concerned that his charge may be fried.
«What time are you leaving tomorrow?» he asks MOJO ominously.
Yorke emerges just before 8pm with a thousand-yard stare. Chris gets
him into a huddle to discuss what he'd like to do about the MOJO interview.
There's an intriguing frisson to their conflab, the coming together
of mentor and meal-ticket. Yorke's shattered, he'd like to talk to
MOJO but would also like to go off-duty some time before midnight.
He needs to freshen up, he says. I suggest a quick turn on the bidet.
Yorke has a short, explosive laugh. His manager decides to finish
their discussions out of earshot. We'll repair to the band's hotel
while Chris and Thom confer in a separate cab.
The Claris is the Starship Enterprise with en-suite
bathrooms. Its plush, space-age ambience seems entirely apt for Radiohead.
As we climb the walls in an external elevator pod, Thom points out
the absurd phallic symbols languishing in a modernistic pond below.
In the rooms, he says, are crazy Bang & Olufsen TVs that come out
of the wall and look at you when you turn them on. We gate-crash some
sort of reception in the roof-garden and Thom settles himself on a
pine lounger by the tiny pool. Considering the kind of day he's had
at the rock face he's in good spirits. He laughs easily and his voice
shows little sign of fatigue. So, Thom, were you happy with last night's
show? «Yeah! Fuck».
- You said on-stage that you were really nervous.
«All the way through, yeah, every note. It's
been a long time and all the stuff going on around us is really, really
frightening and just trying to keep your head... I'm glad we did.
All I know is the feeling afterwards of calm for the first time in
month... Which of course has been completely fucked-over today».
He rolls his eyes and laughs.
We talk at length about the making of OK Computer
and its themes (see MOJO 44). He explains how he attempted to make
each vocal different, talks about the singers he admires (Elvis Costello,
Scott Walker, P.J. Harvey) and how he wanted the lyrics on this album
to be reportage in the manner of The Beatles' Day In The Life. We
talk about the impending headlining gig at Glastonbury — the
biggest British show of their career — one their agent has been
negotiating for a year.
«We're just providing the music,— he
says, putting his face in his hands. 'Hi everyone! We're here
to play some music for an hour and a half...' That's it».—
As I wind the interview down he suddenly says, «I'm really shaking
now»,— and looks distressed. If it's an act it's a convincing
one. We bid him goodnight and he returns to the bar to join the rest
of his band.
«THE REASON A LOT OF PEOPLE WERE EXCITED
about OK Computer is that Modern Rock could do with a saviour,
there's no doubt about that»,— says Nic Harcourt, programming
director at radio station WDST in Woodstock, New York. With recent
relative flops in the US from such hitherto blue-chip acts as R.E.M.
(Warner Bros' big hitter), U2 (Polygram), Pearl Jam and Aerosmith
(Sonv), the record industry's trepidation about big rock bankers is
tempered by the belief that the market is there for the taking by
an act who can capture the public imagination. Capitol believes it
has that act. «Radiohead's critical credibility here has been
building for a little while,— says Roy Trakin, Senior Editor
at LA-based industry Weekly Hits.— There was a little bit of
underrating to start with, but their reputation over in England has
reached these shores now. It all culminated with Capitol beating the
drums on this record, to the extent of sending out Aiwa Walkmans with
tapes of the album sealed inside them. That infuriated some people,
but it seemed to actually get them to listen to the thing. And the
press has pretty much fallen in line».
American reviews for OK Computer have indeed
been adulatory, and virtually across the board. «OK Computer
is evidence that Radiohead are one rock band still willing to look
the devil square in the eyes»,— concluded Rolling Stone's
four-star review. Robert Hilburn of the Los Angeles Times has included
the album in his list of the year's ten best so far. Spin, Request
and Details have all drooled.
As we go to press OK Computer is at Number
41 on the Billboard 200, having entered two weeks ago at 21, a slightly
disappointing showing when you consider that The Prodigy's Fat
of The Land crashed straight in at Number 1 that same week. It's
certainly an improvement on The Bends , which stalled at Number
88, but it's not quite what Capitol hoped for. As for Let Down, its
second week at radio has also been a slight, er, let-down.
«To be perfectly honest, I think the jury's
still out on this record in terms of radio»,— says Harcourt.
Indeed, Lisa Worden, programming director at hugely influential KROQ
in LA, says the station loves Radiohead but confesses that, «I
don't know yet if I hear any radio smashes».
«There are tendencies I don't like, such
as Thom's tendency not to enunciate the lyrics properly — when
I first heard the album I thought it was a little self-indulgent,
but then, as the complexity of it revealed itself to me, I realised
that it's really well put together,— says Paul Kolderie.—
I think this music has a lot of beauty in it, a spiritual quality,
and that's what people are grabbing on to. In terms of the band's
commercial future, the negative factor is that Thom is going to shoot
himself in the foot, although none of the others will. The positive
factor is what they've got up their sleeves in terms of music —
they have three or four smashes that they're waiting for the next
record to put out. The real breakthrough will come with the next one,
and I think it'll come out a lot quicker than you think».
«There's nothing I've seen in any country
in the world that's excited me as much live,— says Capitol's
president Gary Gersh.— There isn't a better singer than Thom
Yorke. Jonny is as exciting a guitar player as anyone alive. Our job
is just to take them as a left-of-centre band and bring the centre
to them. That's our focus, and we won't let up until they are the
biggest band in the world».
Significantly, the group chose to lob a small spanner
in the works when they guested on The Tonight Show on July 25, the
night before starting their US tour in Los Angeles. Where the sensible
thing would have been to play Let Down, or one of the other, more
accessible tracks on OK Computer, Radiohead opted to go the
Oasis route and hit Middle
America with a particularly snotty and abrasive
version of Electioneering. Watching Thom Yorke slashing at a guitar
bearing the message «Protect Choice», it seemed as if
he couldn't bear to be seen to be wooing America too overtly.
If you were standing in the mud on the night Radiohead
played Glastonbury, the chances are you felt good about it. «They
took the stage at a moment when the festival had become an exercise
in grimly telling yourself you were having fun,— says
MOJO staffer Paul Trynka.— Within seconds, it became obvious
that something special was happening. All the songs which might seem
to flirt dangerously with prog on record seemed transformed: introverted,
me-against-the-world diatribes turned into expansive, joyful anthems».
«It was a fucking nightmare to be perfectly
frank,— says Hufford, who was standing at the side of the stage
with his young daughter.— For the first few songs it was unbelievable,
the lights, the roar of the crowd. And they were playing brilliantly.
Then it all started going horribly sour».
Keith Wozencroft was in the crowd with his girlfriend.
«I was laughing for the first two songs, it was unbelievable.
I couldn't quite deal with it. It was surreal for me, a bit of an
old hippy from Gloucester, who went pretty much every year to Glastonbury
to see Hawkwind, Gong; or Taj Mahal. So to be there and see the band
I'd worked with headlining was fantastic, hilarious. Hearing people
behind me singing along and listening to what they were saying. Then
I couldn't enjoy it. When they went into Talk Show Host I knew they
were in trouble».
«Thom's monitors went off after the second
song and he couldn't hear a thing,— says Hufford.— On
Talk Show Host he lost his cues and fucked up completely. It bumbled
to a halt and I could tell he was close to walking off then».
«I thought it was stunning,— says Charlie
Myall, ankle-deep in mud just to the left of the mixing desk.—
I was next to some mad guy from Liverpool who'd come all the way down
just to see Radiohead and was off his trolley and word-perfect all
the way through».
«For the rest of the set,— says Wozencroft,—
I was irritating my girlfriend, saying, is it all right? Something's
happened to the monitors. Oh shit, Thom's upset. And she's like, 'Shut
the fuck up.' So I walked hardier back and realised the audience was
transfixed and that was really exhilarating. I thought it must be
like me seeing Queen doing Bohemian Rhapsody in 1975 — a bit
of history».
«Jonny's guitar playing was literally terrifying,—
says Trynka.— As he hit the wrenching chords in Paranoid Android
that signal the full-blown riff, several people in the audience around
me literally flipped, just spun into the mud with pleasure».
On-stage, things were deteriorating. Intermittently,
the monitors would surge back into life for a brief, deafening moment.
«The whole world started crashing down on me and I'm sure on
Thom,— says Hufford.— But they ploughed on through to
the end. From Thom's perspective it was one of the worst gigs of his
life. But then at the end, seeing the crowd's reaction, they'd obviously
had it away».
Paul Trynka: «Just after Radiohead went off-stage
I bumped into a friend I'd been trying to find for hours. We were
both in some kind of altered state; all we could say was, Did you
see that? When I've talked to people since who witnessed that
performance, it's been galling to hear the odd person describe it
as merely 'a good gig'. It wasn't. It was something far more profound».
«This was their biggest moment in the UK and they did the business,
but they just couldn't enjoy the moment,— says Hufford, shaking
his head.— The old Karma Police operate in a very queer way
— you're never too big for a kicking!»
******** Profile **************
Full Name: Philip James Selway
Date Of Birth: May 23,1967
Instrument: Drums.
Education: Abingdon School; studied English and
history at Liverpool Polytechnic.
Previous jobs: Drumming in pit bands for touring
musicals; sub-editor; TEFL teacher.
Five keywords: Quiet, bald, «put: sensuous,
well-dressed»...
Favourite music:
(Post influences) The Beat, Joy Division, The Ruts;
(Current faves) Teenage Fanclub, Tricky, Supergrass,
Captain Beefheart.
Notes: Often said to be the band's emotiohal anchor.
So . mild-mannered he's known as Mad Dog. The band Claim they wind-up
new engineers and producers by telling them to watch out for Phil's
temper. Married to Kate. Quite likes fish. Really likes vodka and
tonic. Stuff he's said; Not much: What the others have said about
him: «He's the one who least likes the idea of the band as a
gang». (Ed) «Can you play a bit faster?» (Thom).
«He's been attending drum'n'bass nights». (Colin) «He'll
not impose his mood upon you like some members of the band».
(Ed)
Full Name: Colin Charles Greenwood
Date Of Birth: June 26,1969
Instrument: Bass.
Education: Abingdon School; read English literature
at Cambridge.
Previous jobs: Ents officer at Peterhouse, Cambridge;
assistant at Our Price, Oxford.
Five key words: Garrulous, funny, bookish, can't
drive.
Favourite music: (Past influences) Talking Heads,
The Fall, R.E.M., Tom Waits. (Current faves): Ennio Morricone, Prince
Buster, Lee Scratch Perry.
Notes: Known as Coz. Could talk the hind legs off
the-Household Cavalry. Stuff he's said. «Why can't I get a shag?»
«There's a literary ahalogy for that,'- «What I really
hated about Britpop was all that tiresome irony. As if bands shouldn't
be serious things». «I tend to play better in the studio,
no pressures; just sheer volume and alcohol».
What the others have said about him: «Here's
a tip: don't believe a thing he: says». (Ed) «Likes a
drink». (Phil) «He's very strong-minded and astute. (Thom)
«He's downloaded a library». (Thom)
Full Name: Jonathan Greenwood
Date of Birth: November 5, 1971
Instrument: How long have you got?
Education: Abingdon School; began course in psychology
at Oxford Poly.
Previous jobs: Went straight into band.
Five keywords: Funny, erudite, impatient, splint,
fringe.
Favourite music: (Past influences) Jazz, Miles
Davis, Elvis Costello.
(Current faves) Mo'Wax, Can, Pink Floyd's Meddle.
Notes: Hardly drinks, occasionally drugs. Married.
Known as «the dreamer» at school. Likes buying clothes.
Wrote The Tourist, the final track on OK Computer. Stuff he's
said: «Playing bridge goes very well with drugs». What
the others have said about him: «He's got on environmentally-friendly
stunt kite!» (Colin) «He likes having as many instruments
as possible in his corner». (Thom) «Jonny made us all
watch Pink Floyd at Pompeii and said, This is how we should
do videos». (Colin) «He's completely colourblind: Apparently
when they were kids Colin used to change the-paints around in their
paintboxes and Jonny would end up with all these disturbing: pictures».
(Phil)
