And what is all this about the mouse, anyhow? If we
have to eat mice that we’ve just caught ourselves, shouldn’t
we be a little less sanguine about it? You’d think that if we’d
been brought to that point that we’d at least be allowed our
dignity. But Yorke, whose voice begins sailing in its repetitions
into the kinds of notes that made him famous -- the sweet, achingly
beautiful held notes that sound as natural as breathing, lacking all
of the evident artifice that mars so much of modern popular singing
technique -- continues to thrust and parry with an arsenal of phrases
that can neither be taken as sympathy nor pegged down as cruel. They
are both; how we take them tells us what we really know about our
position. And of course it is not very pretty.
I want you to know
He's not coming back
He's bloated and frozen
Still there's no point in letting it go to waste
So knives out
Catch the mouse
Squash his head
Put him in the pot |
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