1997: Radiohead, OK Computer

By Vivian Lee

Our house was always full of music: the American folk music of the 1960s that my parents grew up with, Cantonese pop from the 90s and early 2000s, and cello concertos that I was attempting to master in my childhood as a competitive classical cellist. Aside from a few pop bands, I didn’t listen to any contemporary music nor did I have a cool, older sibling to tell me what the new bands to listen to were. I was, unfortunately, the uncool, older sibling in the family.

Any music fan will always remember the first band, album, or song that opens them up to an entirely new world, a new culture; even expanding the way one looks at the world. For me, that band was Radiohead.

Radiohead not only introduced me to a vast new music library but some of my most cherished friends—friends I still have almost two decades later. By the time I discovered OK Computer, Radiohead already had two albums under their belt, relics of a different time and genre. I had just started sophomore year of high school in early September 2001 and aside from how confusing it was to be on the cusp of full teenagedom, I was also suddenly realizing how confusing it was to be in this world.

While the album OK Computer came out in 1997, the album was sonically exactly what I needed at the moment. The tones were dark, sad, sometimes chaotic—a nod to Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew. I had no grasp on my emotions through writing or even with the right words just yet, but music filled in those unlit corners of my mind for me. I felt like a ball of chaos, a beam of unfettered energy. Angry and confused at everything: my religious upbringing, the government, the way strangers were treating so many of my friends, the stress of doing well in school.

Hearing “Exit Music (For a Film),” which was full of simmering emotion until it builds to a crescendo, encompassed that rollercoaster of puberty and slow enlightenment towards young adulthood. Thom Yorke’s vocals can be heard only slightly above the guitars and drums, not like he was being drowned out but because he refused to back down. That was the energy I wanted to hold on to.

The cold robotic voice, (a synthesized voice on Mac’s SimpleText app named “Fred”), in “Fitter Happier” felt deliberately grim, stifled. It mirrored what it felt like to grow up in a suburb with nothing to do. I heard the song and knew it felt like the pressures of conforming, of being a model minority. Concerned (but powerless) An empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism) Will not cry in public. My life felt like a resume; sometimes I still feel the same way. Who are we when we are the sums of these disparate parts? Who are we when we’re not?

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Not to put too fine a point, but the way I was devouring the Internet in the early 2000s synced up, too, with the artwork on the OK Computer cover, which made sense since the cover was computer-generated. A blue and white and gray chaotic mess of text and images mashed together almost like it was done with lightning speed. Using the Internet felt like the Wild West for me in terms of music discoverability, fandom, and community.

Message boards had obviously been around for awhile by the time I learned about them, but like anything you discover yourself, it felt precious and all-encompassing and new. When I discovered the Radiohead message board, I became a voracious reader of Internet text. I knew people only by the city they were from and the usernames they had chosen for themselves but yet I also knew the deep fears and joys that they were all experiencing. I learned to empathize more; I learned about different upbringings than mine; I learned, too how this band has saved, helped, and taught others.

Having a community, then, meant there was even more to discover. Listening to Radiohead meant going into the wormholes of what influenced OK Computer. There was Miles Davis but also PJ Harvey, R.E.M., Elvis Costello, Can. From these artists opened up even more. A music fan never forgets that one gateway band because what you discover exponentially compounds once you dig deeper.

I can’t tell if it’s because I’m getting older or because rock really has changed into another genre, but it has become increasingly rarer to find that heart spark of discovering new music. The albums I listened to when I was coming of age, and then coming of age again in my 20s, feels more comfortable at this point, and being comfortable feels easier. I also don’t go to shows much anymore, which means there are fewer chances for me to close my eyes and sing along unabashedly, to feel all the feelings a particular song makes me feel.

I made an exception when, one hot summer a few years ago, Radiohead did a one week residency at Madison Square Garden. I ended up going twice that week. Even in a cavernous stadium, in a similar section I would sit in to watch a basketball game, I was able to feel the almost two decades of history and memories I have held with this band. And as the band hit the crescendo in “Karma Police,” for a minute there, I also lost myself, but this time, to it all.

Vivian Lee is a writer and editor. Her writing can be found in The Los Angeles Times, Eater, ELLE.com, Catapult, and more. Originally from Los Angeles, she now resides in Queens, New York. You can find her on Twitter @vivianwmlee or www.vivianwmlee.com.