A Lit Fuse
Songs burn from the inside and the out.
Thoughts and feels on Radiohead
Somewhere, a needle drops and a life changes. Tonight, it's me and Thom and the boys of Radiohead. I'm going headfirst at the behest of my DJ, my Muse. I'm not a Pablo virgin, but I'm not dipping my toe tonight, nor slipping in easy. I'm going to pour doubles and drink the whole bottle and see what kind of spirit walk Radiohead takes me on. Will I meet my flower on the astral plane? Or will a naked Indian show me the way?
Pablo Honey – Radiohead 1995
The moon is full and high overhead. The studio is quiet, lights down low. Opening my heart and seeing what pours out.
You
Right out of the gate, Yorke et al comes hard and fast.
“You are the sun and moon and stars are you, and I could never run away from you.”
You, me, and everything caught in the fire — I can see me drowning, cast in the fire.
My head is spinning at the power of the lyrics and the driving guitar, not to mention his war cry of pain. This man has been in love — the untenable kind that catches fire while you’re drowning. Hell, Thom, we should have a drink. Bet we could talk all night.
It's like he grabbed the raw ache of wanting someone so completely that fences, walls, geopolitical lines—they all just get washed away in the flood of emotion and what-if. How do you run from the sun? From the stars? It's a vertigo— flame and wet, opposing, both consuming.
Creep
I get the vibe that Creep isn’t your cup of tea. You’re so—confident and certain. Self-deprecation and inadequacy just aren’t in your repertoire. I imagine performers HAVE to have some level of brutal honesty in order to be on stage. Vulnerable and emotionally naked.
Not that I think you believe you’ve got it all figured out, but songs like Creep squeeze the heart of those of us who identify with Teenage Dirtbag, Hole in My Sweater, Motorcycle Drive By, Pictures of You—a whole class of minds that can’t quite grasp the concept of being kenough.
Of being wanted. Desired. Accepted for who they are.
I’ll never forget when my truth started spilling onto you—how desperately out of my depth I felt.
But I’m a creep / I’m a weirdo / What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.
Man, and then those guitars crash like an avalanche and I soar.
Maybe it’s an anthem for the disenfranchised that scares me because it taps that I’m-not-enough nerve in me. And yet, when you look at me—really see me—it reminds me what I’m capable of: being who I am, molted me, not the people-pleaser persona. Raw and honest, tempered with some kindness.
And yeah—there’s a ghost of The Air That I Breathe in there, isn’t there? Like the bones of an older love song trapped inside a confession of not being worthy of love at all.
How Do You?
A Punch in the ribs after Creep’s confession. All jagged edges and nervous energy — Yorke sneering, spitting, trying to laugh it off but sounding like he’s holding back a scream.
He knows what he wants / To be loved / to belong / to be heard
He's a stupid baby...
There's anger and frustration. Directed at whom? Is it the self? Or someone outside the RH circle?
A layer of insecurity pulsing underneath. The hangover that follows vulnerability. You bare your soul one night, then wake up the next morning defensive, sarcastic, pretending you didn’t mean it.
I've def said too much, felt too deeply, and then tried to armor up.
The chorus feels like a self-interrogation: “How do you? How do you?” — not a question for someone else, but a jab at the self.
How do you keep going?
How do you live with the mess you’ve made?
How do you stand to feel this much?
It’s messy, loud, a little ugly.
After all the ache of Creep, this track refuses to stay sad. It chooses anger over despair, motion over paralysis. It’s the sound of a young man forcing himself to keep breathing.
Makes me think of how you always move through your own storms with a strange grace, how you don’t hide behind noise the way I do. Maybe that’s the lesson in this one: you face your chaos quietly; I shout mine into a microphone.
Stop Whispering
The angst is dialed down to humanity. Yorke’s voice lifts higher, more pleading than angry, and hope starts to work its way in.
“Stop whispering, start shouting.”
Premolt-me would have heard that as rebellious—not, it feels like the ache of someone who’s spent too long silencing themselves. It’s not just about speaking up — it’s about reclaiming the right to exist loudly. Refusing to be invisible.
Musically, it’s soaring — those open chords, that droning guitar, the way everything feels on the verge of collapse and lift-off at the same time.
This is the moment in the album where Yorke stops drowning and starts gasping for air. Still wounded, still unsure, but he’s no longer content to whisper his pain. He wants to be heard.
How many times have we danced around what we mean — whispering when we could have shouted, hinting when we could have said the words plainly.
Creep is the confession, Stop Whispering is the resolve—the vow to keep speaking, even when the voice shakes.
Thinking About You
That's honest— a musical 'miss you' or 'love you'. An artist has picked up his guitar and started singing her a song. Brutal, bleeding, sometimes crude— but truth.
'Your eyes are on my wall, your teeth over there'.
Like a whispered confession left on an answering machine (those great story devices)— a song written for one person—she'll never call him back and so the rest of us feel it with him.
“Been thinking about you, your record collection / And all of the things that make you who you are.”
As music becomes a bigger and more important part of my life, this line hits. It evokes High Fidelity (John cusak 2000) and the thread of music always connecting him to the women in his life.
A tender song that longs without resolution. He's thinking about her, but the moment is past, so he's reveling in the past. I wonder if this is the reciprocity to messages all typed out—but then backspaced for something less honest, less bleeding—just less.
He's captured the long slow tail of the end. The slow fade softly remembered because it isn't forgettable.
Anyone Can Play Guitar
“I wanna be, wanna be, wanna be Jim Morrison,” and you can almost hear him rolling his eyes at himself as he says it. I LOVE the line and the way teh guitar chop chop chop chops!
It’s a rock song about wanting to matter. About picking up a guitar, joining a band, and being someone.
But underneath, it’s a satire of that entire pursuit.
“Grow my hair, I wanna be, wanna be, wanna be Jim Morrison.”
It’s funny, but it’s also desperate. The humor is a tremor in the hand holding the microphone.
I think of how creation and love get tangled. How we dream of building something eternal out of flesh and sound and words, even knowing it’ll crumble.
Yorke wants to believe that music can save him; maybe I do, too.
Maybe that’s why I keep writing to you — because every letter, every song, every whisper is my way of saying: if I could fly, I’d pick you up and show you.
Ripcord
There’s no tenderness here — just the sound of a band fighting gravity.
A voice cuts through teh fuzz like a blade, spitting lines that sound tossed-off but hit deeper than they should:
“Ripcord, ripcord, ripcord, freefall.”
Trapped — by fame, by fear, by whatever altitude you’ve climbed to without knowing how to come down. We're al trapped by something. Some things we want to be trapped by. But not always. Not mostly.
Hectic an panick, the world’s expectations are about to crash into you before you’ve even figured out who you are.
Once you start to fly, you only have one choice: keep going or fall.
—-
Vegetable
“I never wanted anything so bad, I never wanted anything so much.”
After thinking all we wanted was domestic bliss, to get mail in our name, to be normal—we get it and what? We realize that we were dying al along. Wild hearts, explorer hearts, hearts want more than a cage— at least some do. A little safety is good, but we need danger and on-the-edge. That's where the richest veins of joy are.
There’s a tension here I’ve always felt in my own skin — that urge to scream I’m alive, damn it! when people mistake your stillness for weakness, your introspection for apathy. A boy fighting the mold before it sets for good.
I love a tantrum. Especially one dressed up in song.
I am not passive. I am becoming. Every fire is, by definition, a little reckless.
Prove Yourself
“I can't afford to breathe in this town”
Sure as shit, lands with gravity. I've tried to earn my right to exist, to justify having a voice. In the end, I think I'm the only one I needed to prove anything to. So, why did. Have to try to hard for so long before just accepting who I am? Not like you, who insists the world accepts you for who you are (even though you're still scared inside that you aren't), I'm naked and bald about needing approval from the audience.
What a pleasure to learn from you tha tI don't have to prove myself to be allowed to feel, to create, to love.
I Can't
He wants to be better, but it's beyond him. Talks bout accepting someone. This isn't him going my-way-or-the-highway, it's him saying 'I would if I could, stick with me anyway, won't you?'
You’ve always met truth that way — not with pity, but with presence. Just… listening. Letting the air between us breathe.
And maybe that’s the quiet miracle here: a song about failure that doesn’t collapse under it.
It just sits in the honesty of not yet.
Not healed, not fixed, not gone — just not ready.
That feels real to me.
Because sometimes “I can’t” is the truest prayer you can say before you figure out how to go on.
Lurgee
Weird word. Terrific guitar riff.
A confession that he probably din't want to admit/confront; that being apart is better for him, probably both of them.
He's maybe trying to convince himself, hence the repetition.
The melody kind of tells teh story: It sin't healing, it sweet and wistful, denial in his heartbeat.
we learn to live with what we’ve caught — the affection, the ache, the memory.
You don’t cure love, you metabolize it. You let it change your chemistry and trust you’ll survive the transformation. The moltification.
That last sequence is like a trance... I got better, I got better, Tell me something, tell me something. (And don't you efing lie!).
—
Blow Out
A favored anthem from the Madrid concert deserves some scrutiny.
This just wafts in, loose and uneasy, a soft falsetto, jazzy and easy. Deceptively light for what is to come. Like a fuse burning to the inevitable.
Fused and glued: I hear you Thom. I hear you. Wrapping ourselves against the coming concussion. No confrontattion for us creative types. We're not worthy of winning. Better to be safe. You suck, you ruin it all, no need to expect gold or silver when you have always just produced plain rocks.
Has this whole album been building to this catharsis? Or is it collapse?
Beauty being in the eye and all...
He's just existing— he knows, he knows, he knows... they all keep telling him he's a good boy, but he knows. Fused up. Wrapped up. Glued up. He's protecting the rest of his world from his flawed circuitry.
When this finishes... the record will just spin and hiss, smoke drifting up from the needle.
My takeaway? You don’t have to fix the fire — you just let it burn and celebrate the light and warmth.
Epilogue — Honey After the Fire
Watching the dust in the lamplight drift like slow snow. A molted wolf is comfortable with this state. Priapic
His voice lingers, like the smell of something burned but sweet — something that mattered.
Pablo Honey Is jagged and loose, a blade that's tarnished and a pitted in places. No clean painless cuts here. You'll feel every one and the scars will be beautiful.
Living between the heartbeats is just as valid as the thumps of life. And the absence of their sound resonates as loudly as those 12 tracks at 11.
I just sit here.
Listening to the silence hum.
Honey after the fire. Thinking of: You, feeling like a creep, resisting vegetative states, and staunching against the inevitable blow out.
Pablo Honey
Radiohead 1993
You
You are the sun and moon and stars are you
And I could never run away from you
You try at working out chaotic things
And why should I believe myself, not you?
It's like the world is gonna end so soon
And why should I believe myself?
My–
You, me and everything
Caught in the fire
I can see me drowning
Caught in the fire
You, me and everything
Caught in the fire
I can see me drowning
Caught in the fire
CREEP
When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fucking special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here
I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here
Oh, oh
She's running out the door
She's running out
She run, run, run, run
Run
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fucking special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here
“How Do You?”
He's bitter and twisted
He knows what he wants
He wants to be loved and
He wants to belong
He wants us to listen
He wants us to weep
And he was a stupid baby who turned into a powerful freak
But how do you?
How do you?
How do you?
He lives with his mother
But we show him respect
He's a dangerous bigot
But we always forget
And he's just like his daddy
'Cause he cheats on his friends
And he steals and he bullies anyway that he can
But how do you?
How do you?
How do you?
“Stop Whispering”
And the wise man said I don't want to hear your voice
And the thin man said I don't want to hear your voice
And they're cursing me, and they won't let me be
And there's nothing to say, and there's nothing to do
Stop whispering, start shouting
Stop whispering, start shouting
And the mother say we spit on your son some more
And the buildings say we spit on your face some more
And the feeling is that there's something wrong
'Cause I can't find the words and I can't find the songs
Stop whispering, start shouting
Stop whispering, start shouting
Dear Sir, I have a complaint
Dear Sir, I have a complaint
Can't remember what it is
It doesn't matter anyway
It doesn't matter anyway
Stop whispering, stop whispering
Stop whispering, stop whispering
Stop, stop
“Thinking About You”
Been thinking about you
Your records are here
Your eyes are on my wall
Your teeth are over there
But I'm still no one
And you're my star
What do you care?
Been thinking about you
And there's no rest
Should I still love you
Still see you in bed
But I'm playing with myself
And what do you care when the other men are far, far better?
All the things you've got
All the things you need
Who bought you cigarettes
Who bribed the company to come and see you, honey?
I've been thinking about you
So how can you sleep?
These people aren't your friends
They're paid to kiss your feet
They don't know what I know
And why should you care, when I'm not there?
Been thinking about you
And there's no rest
Should I still love you
Still see you in bed
But I'm playing with myself
And what do you care, when I'm not there?
All the things you've got
That you'll never need
All the things you've got
I've bled and I bleed to please you
Been thinking about you
“Anyone Can Play Guitar”
Destiny, destiny, protect me from the world
Destiny, hold my hand, protect me from the world
Here we are, with our running and confusion
And I don't see no confusion anywhere
And if the world does turn, and if London burns
I'll be standing on the beach with my guitar
I wanna be in a band when I get to heaven
Anyone can play guitar and they won't be a nothing anymore
Grow my hair
Grow my hair, I am Jim Morrison
Grow my hair
I wanna be, wanna be, wanna be Jim Morrison
Here we are, with our running and confusion
And I don't see no confusion anywhere
And if the world does turn, and if London burns
I'll be standing on the beach with my guitar
I wanna be in a band when I get to heaven
Anyone can play guitar and they won't be a nothing anymore
“Ripcord”
Soul destroyed with clever toys for little boys
It's inevitable, inevitable, it's a soul destroyed
You're free until you drop
You're free until you've had enough
But you don't understand
You've no ripcord
No ripcord, no ripcord, no ripcord
Aeroplane
Do I mean what I mean?
It's inevitable, inevitable, oh aeroplane
A thousand miles an hour
And politics in power
That you don't understand
You've no ripcord
No ripcord, no ripcord, no ripcord
The answer to your prayers
We'll drop you anywhere
With no ripcord
No ripcord, no ripcord, no ripcord
“Vegetable”
I never wanted anything but this
I worked hard, tried hard
I ran around in domestic bliss
I fought hard, died long
Every time you're running out of here
Every time you're running I get the fear
I never wanted any broken bones
Scarred face, no home
Your words surround me and asphyxiate
And I burn all hate
Every time you're running out on me
Every time you're running I can see
I'm not a vegetable
I will not control myself
I spit on the hand that feeds me
I will not control myself
The waters spray, the waters run all over me
The waters spray, the waters run
And this time you're gonna pay
I'm not a vegetable
I will not control myself
I spit on the hand that feeds me
I will not control myself
“Prove Yourself”
I can't afford to breathe in this time
Nowhere to sit without a gun in my hand
Hooked back up to the cathode ray
I'm better off dead, I'm better off dead
I'm better off...
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
I wanna breathe, I wanna grow
I'd say I want it but I don't know how
I work, I bleed, I beg and pray
But I'm better off dead, I'm better off dead
I'm better off...
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
I'm better off dead, I'm better off dead
I'm better off...
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
Why?
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
Prove yourself
“I Can't”
Please forget the words that I just blurted out
It wasn't me, it was my strange and creeping doubt
It keeps rattling my cage
And there's nothing in this world will keep it down
Even though I might, even though I try, I can't
Even though I might, even though I try, I can't
So many things that keep, that keep me underground
So many words that I, that I can never find
If you give up on me now I'll be gutted like I've never been before
And even though I might, even though I try, I can't
Even though I might, even though I try, I can't
If you give up on me now I'll be gutted like I've never been before
And even though I might, even though I try, I can't
Even though I might, even though I try, I can't
Even though I might, even though I try, I can't
Even though I might, even though I try, I can't
“Lurgee”
I feel better
I feel better now you've gone
I got better
I got better, I got strong
And I feel better
I feel better now there's nothing wrong
I got better
I got better, I got strong
Tell me something
Tell me something I don't know
Tell me one thing
Tell me one thing and let it go
I've got something
I've got something heaven knows
I got something
I got something I don't know
“Blow Out”
In my mind
And nailed into my heels
All the time
Killing what I feel
And everything I touch
(All wrapped up in cotton wool)
(All wrapped up in sugar-coated pills)
Turns to stone
And everything I touch
(All wrapped up in cotton wool)
(All wrapped up in sugar-coated pills)
Turns to stone
I am fused
Just in case I blow out
I am glued
Just in case I crack out
And everything I touch
Turns to stone
Everything I touch
(All wrapped up in cotton wool)
(All wrapped up and sugar-coated)
Turns to stone
#music #radiohead #wyst #osxs #essay
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