Radiohead

There are many reasons why seemingly rational people dislike Radiohead’s records: terminal overexposure (commonly cited by record-store employees), latent anti-intellectualism, “that damn whiny voice,” compulsive contrarian tendencies, paucity of killer mosh-pit fodder. Then there are the music critics who secretly love recent Radiohead albums but dismiss them in print as “all but unlistenable for casual listeners,” thereby congratulating themselves for their esoteric tastes and attempting to limit the group’s audience so that snobs don’t have to share a favorite act with the masses. In concert, though, all anti-Radiohead arguments dissolve. The songs’ hooks, only slightly obscured in the band’s most ambitious offerings, can swallow stadiums, and Thom Yorke’s freakish mumble becomes a commanding primal scream. The spectacle overshadows Yorke’s sci-fi scenarios: He might be singing about black angels, but spectators are thinking of the rotating-rainbow stage lights and the vividly crackling guitars. Given that Radiohead shows can be life-changing, mind-fucking affairs, a four-hour round-trip commute is a small price to pay.