Radiohead Week - 3

Someone asked me the other day what my favorite book was. After some deliberation I said Catch-22, although that’s a lie. The real answer, I suppose, is 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. If I was cast away on a desert island and could chose only one book to take along with me for the rest of my days, Bolaño’s epic would provide ample delight and literary nutrition. All of that’s by the by, however, because the real real answer is Lunar Park by Bret Easton Ellis. In effect, it’s impossible to choose, and, as you may expect, dear reader, the same is true of Radiohead albums. Five years ago I would be unhesitant in claiming Hail to the Thief as my favorite. And at some point between then and now I would have firmly pinned my colours to OK Computer, but now it is, undoubtedly, Kid A, and I can’t see myself being swayed. Then again, in preparing myself for The King of Limbs, in what direction do I turn? I immediately plugged In Rainbows and Amnesiac into the headphones. That’s what I want, something untoward, something dark, something untouchable. In some ways, I want to hate the new album, and I want everyone to hate it. I don’t want to be asked, ‘what’s your favorite band?’, and then be gushed upon with chants of ‘oh my god, me too!’, when I answer ‘…erm, Radiohead’. Over time let it grow to become their magnum opus.