What I do like, of course, is Thom Yorke, a genius whom I had never seen live, and Flea, also quite great, so I don’t fault myself for making the mistake of requesting to cover this set. But still, The Eraser? This was a dull, dull record. Not a bad record, mind you, just a niche record, a bedroom record, to be greatly beloved by a few, and certainly not meant for the Green Stage on any night of the weekend.
So, you know where I’m coming from here, and consider yourself warned that you might prefer reading Clay’s excellent preview if you liked the show (or if you just like bagging on Gene Simmons). (And you are not a good human being if you don’t like bagging on Gene Simmons.)
My first time to see him live, it is clear that Yorke must have long since been welcomed by Dylan and Springsteen into the pantheon of unlikely superstars. Looking like a hobo John McEnroe (unshaven, unkempt, headband, etc.), his movements are not graceful, but hunched and greasy, almost golem-like. He struts about a bit like a slutty 1970’s secretary who knows she is too smart for the glass ceiling (a.k.a., Rod Stewart). Except, again, he looks like a hobo John McEnroe golem, which makes it a little creepy. Good thing talent still counts for something in this world. And shame on you all for thinking about such low matters.
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