We tried to get comfortable. The
chords were so pretty; the melody was so light and simple. It seemed
to come from somewhere deep inside of the singer: it was completely
unforced. He might have been making it up as he went along. In another
world, without the songs-leading-up-to-this-point baggage with which
we were faced, or with lyrics less rooted in total and inviolate mistrust
of an unidentified opponent (some of us seemed to imagine that Tony
Blair or the English Parliament were the target, presumably on the
strength of the word “cronies,” but those, too, were shortly
caught up in the wave of nausea), this might have been something wholly
enjoyable. Nelson Riddle could have arranged it for Billie Holiday
to sing on Lady in Satin and it would have fit right in. But
then Yorke said “Holy Roman Empire” after one of his “Come
on, come on” incantations, and then he said “Come on if
you think you can take us,” and then words failed him and he
just said “Oh, oh,” and the next time he sang his voice
had begun to distort and he was repeating himself, and we began to
vomit.
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