| But we have been following Amnesiac song by song here, and we’d do well to remember that a great album is not just a collection of songs but a sequencing thereof. There are movements to consider: the fluid slip from individual claustrophobia to communal entropy that took place in the gap between “Packt LIke Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box” and the following “Pyramid Song”; the three doors to the same immobilizing fear that we found waiting for us at the ends of “Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors,” “I Might Be Wrong,” and “Knives Out,” which fear’s resolving clarity made the journey across the songs feel like a slide from a snow-topped house down a well-oiled chimney into a fireplace; the free-fall from “Knives Out” into “Morning Bell/Amnesiac,” which had to it a sort of gleeful, masochistic abandon. |