SCARY MONSTERS or ‘1984’ AND A HALF

Aside from love, pain is often the most manipulated, misappropriated emotion in pop music. It is often mangled and wrenched like a newly laundered flag until every last drop of authenticity is removed from its fabric, leaving behind only a dry rag to hang and blow in the gusts. Whether it be the caterwauling of almost every so-called diva to designer-thug growls of most NU-metal™, it becomes apparent the currency of being in pain – no matter how fraudulent – is briskly changing hands in the mass market. Then, what are we to make out of a band like Radiohead and its recalcitrant frontman Thom Yorke?

Probably one of the most important British bands of the last century and certainly one of the few that remain relevant in the present, Radiohead can almost be too painful to listen to, an atrocity exhibition that one cannot help but be both appalled and drawn to. Yorke himself is the Caliban of modern rock, a freak who flogs himself publicly as a sort of catharsis. Of course, that was meant as a compliment; pain, like the metallic taste of blood, is the apt antidote for saccharine sentiment.

How could such a blatantly uncommercial outfit reach a mass audience, and have whole continents holding their breath for their next release?

For those who don’t know, the boys of Radiohead became superstars upon the release of a minor ditty the band used to play during soundchecks. The song Creep not only became an anthem for outcasts everywhere but for the bullies who chanted its chorus while delivering kicks to the groin. It also thrust into the spotlight Yorke, a reluctant pop star with a nervous tic and a mad-eye (more genuine than anything The Vines’ Craig Nicholls could ever muster). He was touted as a voice for his generation; if that were indeed true, then that generation – our generation – is screwed.

"Hail to the Thief" is the band’s sixth studio album and the band wastes no time in thwarting expectations for a return to safer territory. Indeed, it is a rock album albeit one with an agenda. The title of the album itself courts controversy and is brazenly anti-Dubya (perhaps royalties should be paid to Michael Moore?) The band steer clear of making any overt political statements in any of the songs, but who needs to when the album itself is decidedly bleak? As always with Yorke and his cohorts, they take public figures and issues and transform them into personal demons. The album is a reaction of a bruised mind to the lunacy of our times, a city map of modern society where one finds the detours lead to dead ends not unlike the one Julio Madiaga finds at the close of Maynila sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag.

And who can blame them? Today the psychopath is more in vogue than ever, and illogic is the only thing that makes sense. (The band announces this inverted logic early on in the album with the first two numbers, namely "2+2=5" and "Sit Down. Stand Up.") The descendants of Adolph Hitler do not man the derelict posts of Dachau but exchange telephone banter from their offices at 10 Downing St. and the White House. Safe to say, the album is a menagerie of monsters, each embodied by Yorke himself to frightening effect throughout the album’s entirety.

Each song is inhabited by a different bogeyman, from as diverse as O’ Brien from George Orwell’s 1984 and Dr. Benway from William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch to Jack the Ripper and – of course – your friendly neighborhood Republican, all cross bred and gene-spliced in Dr. Moreau’s laboratory using machines designed by David Cronenberg. Yorke’s impressive vocal performance is ably supported by the band itself, making music that allows each chimera-persona to roam. Harrowing as it is fascinating, the band creates aural landscapes that have long and deep shadows from which feral shapes flit at the corner of your eye. First single There There is a trek through the crepuscular hills of Patricia Highsmith’s The Cry of the Owl as seen through the unflinching lens of Michael Haneke. We Suck Young Blood is appropriate dinner music for cannibals; proper table manners though might not be observed when the band launches into a Blow by Blow Jeff Beck freak-out. (Another track, Myxomatosis, is also reminiscent of the legendary guitarist’s landmark album – that is, if it were produced by Autechre.)

Although it might not be for everyone (indeed, some may even be wondering why would they buy something that might make them feel bad), it certainly is essential listening for anyone interested in getting a valid and poignant portrait of the times. Radiohead sees a world where the first words infants will hear will be idle banter between the newscaster and the weatherman, children will be trained like Pavlovian dogs to swallow the latest atrocities and advertising jingles and their first steps will be made under the shadow of billboards with the smiling visage of Big Brother (or Ping Lacson or Danding Cojuangco, take your pick). A little too painful to bear? The fainthearted can find comfort in elevator muzak.

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Notes from Underground:

Want to listen to more Radiohead? Troop down to Gweilos at C. Palanca St. in Makati. Every Monday, DJ Ro plays the hits from the ‘60s, ‘70s and the ‘80s. Happy hour all night long! Of course, no muzak.

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Send comments and reactions to: erwin_romulo@hotmail.com.