Radiohead is the most artistically significant band of the past 20 years, maybe 30 years, and maybe ever. And no band since their old tour mates in R.E.M. has the capacity to divide its fans on the crucial question: What is their best record? You have your Bends crusties, OK Computer hardliners, the Kid A/Amnesiac Damascenes, the In Rainbows generation, et al. Like the elephant in the old Sufi parable, Radiohead feels like a completely different animal depending on which of us blind people is doing the groping. Rather than contribute another essay on the bandâs indisputable significance/importance/excellence, we asked some Radiohead freaks to pick the one song that captures the quintessence of the bandâs power. SEAN NELSON
âThe Tourist,â OK Computer (1997)
âThe Touristâ represents some kind of apotheosis for âthe grand album finale.â Closing Radioheadâs consensus magnum opus, OK Computer, its languorous pace, wistful mood, restrained guitar pyrotechnics, and tolling glockenspiel (or is it a triangle?) coalesce into something worthy of Pink Floyd circa Atom Heart Mother or Meddle. Iâve never been a fan of Thom Yorkeâs neurasthenic whine, but on âThe Tourist,â the songâs grandiose arc enables him to strain into his rangeâs sweet spot. He delivers the lines with the sort of gravity and poignancy that make this listenerâsomeone who respects Radiohead and their music more than he enjoys themâunderstand what all the fuss is about. Also, the first time I heard âThe Touristâ was when a server on whom I was crushing put OK Computer over the barâs PA, and the songâs dreamy drift and romantic lilt intensified my desire for her. So thereâs that, too. DAVE SEGAL
âPalo Alto,â Airbag/How Am I Driving?(1998)
Call me sentimental, but I love rock bands, and Radiohead recorded this astonishing B-side in the wake of the outsized (though still never sufficiently massive) success of OK Computer. Its recording is captured in the documentary Meeting People Is Easy, which I basically watched every day for months while waiting and hoping that the next record would somehow combine the cathartic aggression and wit of this song with the more expansive textures and shapes of OK. As we all know, Kid A and Amnesiac (which I still think of as âthe new onesâ) did nothing of the kind, instead ushering in the next two decades of extrapolated, decentralized electronic space alienation music as the defining sound of the age. Which was perfectly fine. However, in âPalo Alto,â you hear the last explosive gasp of Radiohead as noisy, obstreperous, guitar-driven British rock band. And every time they announce a new record, I secretly dream theyâll become one again. SEAN NELSON
âMorning Bell,â Kid A (2000) and Amnesiac (2001)
There are two versions of âMorning Bellââone is on Amnesiac and the other on Kid A. I donât care much for the former, which has no beat and the gothic mood of Depeche Modeâs Black Celebration. But the latter and first version captures a marvelous feeling that I think is best described by this line in James Joyceâs Finnegans Wake: âIt darkles, (tinct, tint) all this our funnaminal world.â The Kid A version of âMorning Bellâ has a beat that stutters and a mood that darkles like a Bernard Herrmann score. And in the manner of a blues tune, itâs mostly composed of triplets, with the second line repeating the first (âWhere did you park the car?/Where did you park the car?â). But unlike a blues tune, the third line does not resolve the first two (âClothes are all over the furniture...â). In a standard blues stanza, line three brings it all together (for example: âMy name is Piggly Wiggly, got-a groceries all on my shelf/My name is Piggly Wiggly, got-a groceries all on my shelf/Got a sign on my door, âYou can come in and help yourselfââ). The lines in âMorning Bellâ go from a question about a missing car to a messy room to a mischievous thought to the eruption of a fire drill to the moments before a murder. One stanza, the darkest in the work, has three repeated lines. This is a hypnagogic blues tune. CHARLES MUDEDE
â2+2=5,â Hail to the Thief (2003)
Despite relentless and undying respect for Radiohead, Hail to the Thief was the last album of theirs I truly loved, and its lead-off track, â2+2=5,â is an all-time favorite. Itâs dark, disaffected, and driving, speaking directly to the righteous anger I was feeling toward the Bush administration at the time (which I once thought was the worst this country would ever face) and a seemingly complacent populace content to accept whatever was thrown down the pipeline; the lyrics reflected on our countryâs political stateâexplicit criticism of Bush winning the presidency in the 2000 election even though Gore earned the popular voteâwhile referencing George Orwellâs 1984 and mindless denizens who accept implausible truths even when logic and fact prove otherwise. The band was also touring behind Hail to the Thief the first time I saw them live, and Iâll never forget the explosive way they opened the set with this track. It reminds me that Radiohead once had teeth that their more recent output seems to lack. The song and album are just as relevant today as when they grabbed me the first time. And we still arenât really paying attention. LEILANI POLK
âBodysnatchers,â In Rainbows (2007)
In my mind, Radiohead will always own two subjects: the paranoid individual lashing out against society, and love as soul-eating obsession. âBodysnatchersâ from In Rainbows exemplifies the formerâitâs a perfect expression of the particular rage that mopey kids allow themselves to feel once a month. In the beginning, a heavily distorted, hard rock riff and a nervous hi-hat add a lot of nervous energy to Thom Yorkeâs frustrated murmur. Yorke sounds like heâs about to burst into some kind of paranoid thunderstorm, and then, 40 seconds later, he does. His voice rises into a full-on Brit-punk hissy while Jonny Greenwood lays an apocalyptic riff over the top of an already apocalyptic rhythm guitar part. Then a siren noise wraps around the whole thing as Yorke sings, âI have no idea what I am talking about/Iâm trapped in this body and canât get out,â and suddenly the songâs a full-blown paranoia tornado. Despite all the cinematic gestures, the tornado feels very internal. The speaker would tear up the whole fucked-up world if he could only get out of his own head. RICH SMITH