Kid A, a personal history

After almost a decade of the album being released, I downloaded Kid A today.

It’s a big deal for me.

Back in 2000, I was 19 years old, a sophomore and a diehard Beatles nut. I was also nuts for all of Britpop, at least the most mainstream artists in it, like Oasis, Blur, Ocean Colour Scene, Kula Shaker, The Verve. You name it, I loved it.

I loved all those melodies, the classicist songwriting, the guitar solos, the “wow these are my rockstars” kind of stars-in-your-eyes devotion that these bands inspired. I loved the way they dressed, their haircuts, their guitars, all that cool gear man!

Yet, there was one band that I just felt no attraction for. Radiohead. Of course, I had heard and loved Creep and Karma Police and Just, even No Surprises. But Subterranean Homesick Alien? Thanks but no thanks. This was just too weird for me, and I couldn’t abide by electronics. And what was with all that moaning anyway? Why couldn’t I make out what Thom Yorke was trying to say?

So no Radiohead for me then. In fact, when my copy of Ok Computer got whacked, I couldn’t give a damn. After all, Travis was much nicer. The Invisible Band? I thought it was a classic.

In 2000, I heard all that brouhaha about this crazy new album that Radiohead have come out with, something called Kid A. I read about it in music magazines- “Thom Yorke has an emotional meltdown!”; “Radiohead says, ‘No More Melody!’”; “Colin Greenwood confides, ‘We could almost kill each other’”. This weird band had apparently gotten weirder. Apparantly this album had no guitars, no songs, just ambient moaning, and lots of electronic didgeridoo.

Kid A was a work of painful genius, they said; it captured the disjointed new Millennia; it was the sound of the new century! Thank you, I’d rather weep to Parachutes. Chris Martin had a better voice I thought. The very name, Radiohead, reminded me of all those strange noisy bands on Rock Street Journal with ‘head’ in their names- Portishead, Buckethead, Motorhead, Jarhead, god-knows-what-head. It was so, you know, musty and Nineties!

When I left University with my MA in 2004, all of 23 and nowhere to go but away, my musical tastes were the same- Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Oasis, Kula Shaker; and bands that sounded like them. The only anomaly to this was probably my un-analysed love for The velvet Underground

And so I carried on through those lost years (in a way), as my career atrophied and went nowhere and my yearning for the mountains grew into an unrequited hurt. But musically, 2005 and 2006 were rich years. I was finally earning, though peanuts. I had a little cd player. I could finally go to a cd shop- in this case Music Land in New Delhi- and pick up old albums by The Band, Traffic, The Byrds, Motown. I could finally hear all these great bands and their albums from the 60s and the 70’s; build up a record collection that I could be proud of.

But it was a record collection that mirrored those of my peers. There was nothing I didn’t have that they didn’t. I was hanging out with a peer group at least 5 years older than me, and it did me a world of good too, as I started listening to more Jazz, Bluegrass, Folk. But there was nothing I could call my own, apart from The Beatles, and we all know just how many other billions regard The Beatles as their own! It was as if this decade, my decade, was passing me by and I knew nothing of its music, hadn’t even bothered to hear anything new. It would all be inferior to the 60’s anyway, I told myself. Why bother?

And then, 2007.

I was finally in a job that I was comfortable in; that gave me some breathing space; that didn’t ask for too much of my time. Better still, I had a regular income. And I was in a band again.

Being in a band that rehearses every other day and that wants to play its own songs does things to you that would never otherwise happen. You start thinking of music as something organic, something that grows. It ceases to be a commodity, no matter how highly prized. The band's guitar player Sujoy (The Prof) introduced me to Bop and Swing; to Django Reinhardt, Lenny Breau, Esbjorn Svensson, Brad Meldhau and so much more. Meanwhile my editor at the magazine, Sanjoy, exhorted me to write on music.

Easier said than done. I had discovered Indie, and so my first reaction was to write on Devendra Banhart or LCD Soundsystem or The Strokes, often in a haphazard way. Would staid suits (the predominant audience of my magazine) be even remotely interested? But it was a start, and I was grateful.

I got albums by the dozen. Including Radiohead’s In Rainbows. Swayed by the beautiful, haunting songs on that album, I went back to their earlier albums, especially Ok Computer. The songs started making sense. They ceased to be miserable moanings in the dark and became immensely complex bits of enjoyment. Then I discovered all those covers of the band's music by other bands, jazzmen. These forced me to listen to Radiohead-music with fresh ears.

Over the last couple of years I’ve discovered more bands and music than I can possibly keep up with. Much of it has been great. Since I was now writing on them, I had to pay better attention. Under Sanjiv, my erstwhile editor, I was forced to think about how to write, how to present my ideas, how to tie it up in a cohesive way. All the stuff, basically, that you never learn unless you’re doing it. Again, I’m extremely grateful.

My own songs started to reflect this broad palette. That, in turn got me thinking about song structures, melodic lines, key shifts, what have you. And as I grew in music, I started looking at my old loves in a new light. For the first time, I could enjoy The Beatles in an objective way, looking out for details, making notes about the songwriting and the arrangements. The internet was there, along with a plethora of books on music, for any questions I may have. Then there was the Prof, arguing with me on every turn. That helped.

I was even going to the mountains.

And so, after years of being in denial, I downloaded Kid A. From the horns-led mayhem of The National Anthem, to the panic disco of Idioteque, and the fragile beauty of Morning Bell- I'm dissolving in an ocean of sound.

Everything in its right place.