It was wonderful. The
beauty and the terror of it had taken control of our very bodies.
The song transitioned quickly but very smoothly from its swing rhythm
to a more standard rock 4/4 and cymbals, light and plush as clouds,
flashed against our ears. Nobody knew what Yorke started saying next.
It wouldn’t be fair to say that nobody cared; it’s more
accurate to say that we could all tell what he meant even thought
we couldn’t agree on the actual substance of his words. “We
ride, we ride/ghost horses,” some of us thought we heard as we
lay there puking. “Relax, relax/hold on tight,” others imagined
hearing, the involuntary convulsions of our esophagi arrhythmically
retching against the diabetic coma-inducing sweetness of the three
chords that splashed repeatedly and calmly but relentlessly against
the heavy air like pond ripples lapping up on rocks. We weren’t
sure if we had ever felt so good in our lives, lying there on the
floors of our kitchens or living rooms, reclining also in the seats
of our cars, leaning over our workdesks or kitchen counters, puking
our guts out.
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