Jarrett House North

This is the sixth in a series of posts that look at individual tracks on Radiohead’s 2016 album A Moon Shaped Pool.

With “Glass Eyes” we are back in the sound world of “Daydreaming,” a ballad anchored by a piano heard through distortion and swimming in strings. At this point in their career, the band are too good to let it just be “strings,” though, and the performance of the string quartet isn’t just accompaniment. It underscores the dull ache at the core of the narrator, as it swells under “panic is coming on strong” and “I don’t know where it leads, I don’t really care”; climaxes before the bridge, and then turns somber for a moment as the narrator confesses “I feel this love turn cold.”

The narrator starts in an unusually direct voice, as though on a phone call, telling someone “I just got off the train” before almost immediately shifting perspective: “a frightening place / their faces are concrete grey.” In the four opening lines, Yorke’s narrator evokes both Adele and Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro,” though immediately freezes the warmth out of Pound’s famous “petals on a wet, black bough.” These faces are cold and stone, and they reflect the narrator’s panic back at him.

The narrator shifts in space, now going on a path down a mountain, but finds no more surcease in the dry, dead vegetation than in the train station. Ultimately he has to confess the source of his pain: “I feel this love turn cold.” The strings get the last word, as the solo cello line is underpinned by double bass.

“Glass Eyes” is the shortest song on the album and the most emotionally fraught, as Yorke’s narrator allows himself to be confronted by the full weight of the dissolution of his love.

This is the fifth in a series of posts that look at individual tracks on Radiohead’s 2016 album A Moon Shaped Pool.

With “Ful Stop,” the brief respite that was “Desert Island Disk” is gone, replaced with a menacing swarm of guilt, counter-charge and (self-)recrimination. “You really messed up everything,” sings Yorke. “Why should I be good if you’re not?”

It’s not clear from the lyric whether Yorke’s narrator is blaming himself or his erstwhile mate for the state of things, but the music makes the weight of the emotional charge clear. Opening with a muffled drum beat sounding like a heart with arrhythmia and a bassline like an incoming jet, the song carries along at high velocity in 6/8. “Ful Stop” is the nearest thing to the oddly danceable tracks on Radiohead’s nearest album, King of Limbs—that’s a performance from that 2012 tour above where the song debuted. But you’d have to be seriously damaged to dance to this, and maybe not in a good way.

The other thing that’s interesting to me is the arc of the arrangement. Opening with purely bass and (presumably synthesized, or at least heavily treated) drums, by the time Yorke declaims that he’s “to be trapped in your ful stop” the whole band is in, Selway again having seamlessly replaced the treated drums and twin guitar lines dueling behind the repeated “truth will mess you up.” Then the guitars drop out behind Yorke’s plea to “take me back again,” replaced by strings and chorus but still powered by the driving drums and bass, before the “polite” guitar line resurfaces.

The whole thing sounds like an anxiety attack. Despite its more conventional arrangement, this is one of the more difficult songs on the album—not quite “foul tasting medicine” but not pulling any punches either.

This is the fourth in a series of posts that look at individual tracks on Radiohead’s 2016 album A Moon Shaped Pool.

“Desert Island Disk” snaps the mood of the first three songs on A Moon Shaped Pool, and brings us to an entirely different place. It is of the few songs on the album to make an appearance in substantially final form prior to the album’s release: Yorke premiered it live and solo, along with “The Numbers” and “Present Tense,” at Pathway to Paris last December, as shown in the clip above.

The full band arrangement is still primarily centered around Yorke’s English folk solo guitar and gentle vocal melody. There’s some bass reinforcement, synth and a very subtle guitar line, but they’re very much in the background—the drums don’t even arrive until the bridge, a full 2:18 into the song. The overall effect, oddly enough for a Radiohead song, is pastoral, centered on the narrator’s epiphany as he wakes from “a thousand years of sleep”: “the wind rushing round my open heart / an open ravine / in my spirit white / totally alive / in my spirit light… Standing on the edge of you / you know what I mean / Different types of love / are possible.”

It’s about the most un-Radiohead sentiment possible, seemingly free of the guilt and dread that saturate the first three tracks. But one has to ask: is the narrator really “totally alive/totally released”? With that heart as an open ravine? We’ll see. Still, standing on its own, “Desert Island Disk” stands as one of the most unguarded, hopeful moments in the band’s whole discography.

This is the third in a series of posts that look at individual tracks on Radiohead’s 2016 album A Moon Shaped Pool.

It’s the third track on the album, following two barnburners that raise the awesome spectre of guilt and culpability. You’d be forgiven for listening past “Decks Dark” as, likely, filler. It’s certainly more restrained: it opens with a synthesized drum beat and treated piano chords after the lush orchestration of “Daydreaming,” and the vocal melody covers a range of perhaps a minor third for much of the song. But there’s a lot going on here.

First, indulge me while I talk about the drums. Phil Selway has to be the most unsplashy drummer in the history of … well, whatever camp of music you put Radiohead into. In very few other bands would the drummer seek to fit his sonic palette strictly into that laid down by a drum machine at the beginning of the track so that you can hardly tell where he starts. But one should never mistake control for lack of virtuosity—just remember the jaw-dropping skill demonstrated on “Weird Fishes”—and it’s Selway’s restraint and subtlety that give the song a platform from which all else builds, including his treated (synth?) cymbal splashes (or are they guitar slashes?) in the ultimate chorus.

The arrival of the chorus over piano, drums, polite guitar and bass in the verse (I’ll adopt the chorus/verse/chorus designation proposed by the fine folks at Genius.com) signals a building of tension, as does the key change from D major to A minor, arriving almost imperceptibly thanks to Yorke’s deceptive vocal melody, which walks a tightrope around the fifth in the original key for almost the entire verse.

And then there’s the lyrics. In addition to the “elephant in the room,” we must add this song’s “spacecraft blocking out the sun”: so enormous that it blocks out the sun, so loud that you can’t block it out with your hands over your ears, so omnipresent that you can’t escape it no matter how far you run. “But it was just a laugh,” says the narrator, and we are anchored back in the lyrical context of the album. It might have just been a laugh for the narrator, but it certainly wasn’t for the person he’s addressing. And he ultimately has to acknowledge the spacecraft, as though realizing the lie in the “just a laugh”: “Have you had enough of me / sweet darling?” he sings, as electric guitar makes its first appearance and the song settles firmly in A minor, the cracks of the guitar slashes (or are they cymbals?) hammering home the point.

And now, improbably, we’ve arrived at an almost funky outro. A lesser band would have made the jam at the end an entire song, one I’d be very happy to hear. Instead, Radiohead takes us on a journey in which the narrator shows us the tightrope suddenly falling away, the moment at which self deception falters and he sees the impossibility of the situation. “And so we crumble,” indeed.

This is the second in a series of posts that look at individual tracks on Radiohead’s 2016 album A Moon Shaped Pool.

“Daydreaming” was released two days before A Moon Shaped Pool dropped, and so I’ve had a little time to think about it. But it eludes easy analysis. Easily the most gorgeous track on the album, it’s lyrically the most bleak, and the tension rises up five minutes into the song and tears it apart.

And yet it starts more conventionally…almost. The piano sonata that emerges at twenty-three seconds from a thicket of chimes and manipulated sounds (not unlike those that begin “Bloom,” the first track on The King of Limbs) would not have been out of place as a musical interlude opening “Pyramid Song,” “Nude,” or any other slow keyboard driven ballad that Radiohead has delivered since Kid A (to say nothing of Thom Yorke’s “Guess Again!” on last year’s hit-and-miss Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes). Yorke’s descending vocal line is cousin to “Nude” or “Codex.”

But there are important differences. Where Yorke once angrily railed against those who were “such a dreamer / to put the rights,” this lyric is more resigned: “Dreamers / they never learn / they never learn / Beyond the point / of no return.” There is no return from this dreaming.

You can (again) anchor this song in the dissolution of Yorke’s 23-year-old relationship with artist Rachel Owen: there’s few more naked statements of guilt in the band’s work than “It’s too late / the damage is done.” But Yorke points out “this goes / beyond me / beyond you.” The dreaming he is lost in is existential.The tape slip at the beginning of “Daydreaming” reminds us that we’re listening to an artifact—a recording that has been manipulated. We can be aware that existence is a dream but cannot look beyond it. There’s a fair amount of Plato’s “The Cave” peeking into “the white room / by a window / where the sun comes / through,” but never has that metaphor for life been so colored with despair and regret.

The threads of the song are married as the instrumentation (piano now joined by strings, played with the attack of the phrase at the very end of the line to sound backtracked) falls away behind slowed backward vocals (in the left stereo channel, accompanied by a bowed double bass line in the right). The line, reversed, could be saying “Half of my life,” a regretful farewell to his relationship. Or it could simply be the sounds of slumber as the daydreamer huddles behind the fire in the cave, the closing image in the Paul Thomas Anderson video for the song.

It would be enough to leave the dreamer here. But there’s that album cover. What could be an aerial landscape also resembles the sunburst of light coming through a melting 35mm filmstrip, suggesting that the artifice that gives the dreamer respite is about to be ripped away. Whatever peace he’s found, it suggests, is short-lived.

I can’t write about A Moon Shaped Pool in its entirety. It contains multitudes. So I’m going to try going one track at a time.

Having said that, let me open with a statement about the album as a whole: most of it is as introverted, by turns warm and claustrophobic, an album as has ever been recorded. But “Burn the Witch,” the opening, is a different animal, something that feels more like the overtly political Hail to the Thief than the darkly personal In Rainbows. We’re encouraged by the cheerily ominous strings and the bass line to simultaneously embrace and cower in fear from the witch hunt underway. “Abandon all reason / avoid all contact / do not react / shoot the messengers,” Yorke sings. The high strings gradually become more and more unhinged in the second chorus, dropping out for a bit, then coming back in to escalate into complete mayhem.

It’s hard not to interpret the song as referring to the current state of democratic political discourse. But I’m going to suggest that there’s more to it. On a much more personal level, this is the sound of someone’s life coming apart. “This is a low flying panic attack” is not a political response but a personal one. This isn’t “a roundup”; the singer is getting rounded up. The “loose talk around tables” is a personal attack.

I can’t help but think of the context of Yorke’s marriage dissolving, of his singing “I just wanna be your lover…forget about your house of cards, and I’ll do mine” nine years ago, only to follow with “your ears should be burning” regarding the gossip following infidelity. “Denial, denial” indeed. “Burn the Witch” is the sound of old hurts coming home to roost.

And yes, it’s also about unfair demonization of immigrants. Funny how art works that way.