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Rating: THE REVIEW
-Where are we going?-.
-There-. Thom pointed to the snow-capped peak of a mountain. We were on a checkered, transparent floor intersecting the mountains.
The bus moved silently, as if it had no engine, and I could only hear our breaths.
-In any case, it doesn't matter where but how you go-.
He pulled a CD from the right pocket of his jacket and inserted it into the player. The first notes emerged, and the crumpled, rewound voices of "Everything In Its Right Place" began to be heard.
-Haven't you closed your eyes yet?- Yorke asked. He was already speaking with his eyelids half-closed.
I did the same and began my journey too. I let myself be lulled. I heard nothing else but the music. Thom's lips next to me were moving, but understanding their meaning had become impossible for me.
Then came "Kid A" and "The National Anthem", with its hypnotic, repetitive riff, yet captivating and enveloping. I felt like starting to move convulsively, but I restrained myself. Thom was there.
And then the guitar, the first one, from "How To Disappear Completely", warm, calm, dreamy. So many words are insufficient to describe it.
"Treefingers" is the tunnel, where everyone grasps what they want, finds what they were looking for, and gets lost in it. The forest ends, and the light returns with "Optimistic" and "In Limbo", the prelude to "Idioteque", the one you wait for, the one you love, in all its electronic beauty.
Then "Morning Bell". Next to me, while driving, Thom sings his own songs again. He knows them by heart. The voice is muffled, drum and bass slowly lead to madness and ecstasy, even. I liked this one. I ask Thom if I can listen to it again, and he kindly rewinds and pleases me.
Everything closes with "Motion Picture Soundtrack", a slow march accompanied by the organ.
Then, after 50 minutes, it all ends. The music stops as it started, leaving you with that stirring and fusion of emotions that only experimentation can give.
Thom puts the CD back in the same pocket it came from and looks at me questioningly. -So?-
-Strange, but I like it- I say.
-A rating?-
-Four out of five. I miss the guitars from the previous ones-.
-Ok-. The journey was over, and now silence had returned.
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Summary by Bot
This review captures a vivid and emotional journey through Radiohead's Kid A album. The reviewer is transported by the hypnotic and experimental sounds, highlighting key tracks such as 'Everything In Its Right Place,' 'The National Anthem,' and 'Idioteque.' They appreciate the innovative instrumentation and Thom Yorke's vocal delivery, awarding the album four out of five stars while noting a slight longing for more traditional guitar sounds.Tracklist Lyrics Videos
Radiohead
Radiohead are an English rock band formed in Abingdon, Oxfordshire. The members are Thom Yorke, Jonny Greenwood, Colin Greenwood, Ed O'Brien and Philip Selway. They evolved from guitar-based alternative rock into work that incorporates electronics and orchestration.120 Reviews
Other reviews
By serestoppone
"Kid A sounds like a fogged brain trying to recall a foreign abduction, and it has the effect of numbing it after listening."
"Radiohead stages the crisis of artistic expression and, simultaneously, its rebirth."
By Mellon
The first notes of "Everything In Its Right Place" speak clearly: our minds are overwhelmed by frenzy, phobias, and senseless obsessions.
Close your eyes and open your heart... on the other side, someone is looking for you to take you away from this hell.
By wheredowegofromhere
That’s when I understood music that transcends all rhetoric, that frees itself from being just music to become a state of the heart.
Thanks to the music of Radiohead, I turned the other cheek, and not only that, to all my cellmates.
By Mr_Iko
Radiohead produce through irradiation up to the bones of the arm, the phenomenon of combustion (sometimes explosion) of the psychological states of the host organism.
Prolonged use is not recommended.
By TheBlackAngelsDeath
Kid A is a fresco of the postmodern era. The postmodern era is the ice age.
The discordant note is represented by Kid A, an imperfect fruit of industrial production.
