Hypothetical Limbs: Radiohead and the New Media
There are a few musical works which have really changed the way I think about music, during my adolescence. Schoenberg’s Moses Und Aron came at a time of classical composition, when my mind was contemplating numerical sequence – I found a copy on vinyl and played the dissonance loudly. Tom Waits’ Real Gone came three albums into my discovery of his work and hit me like his motif of choice, a steam train. However, the one which came most unexpectedly, after years of listening to their albums second-hand (through car radios, friend’s stereos, and as material for cover bands) was Radiohead’s Kid A. The horn lines were delicious, their sporadic interplay hard-nosed and animated. From there, I revisited OK Computer, an album I had loved when my brother-in-law had played it years before. Then, I found myself in the oddity of comparison that was Pablo Honey. Radiohead pushed my mind to the next level of popular music while my lyrical brain found its loop: I walk through walls, I float down the Liffey. I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I’m not here. I’m not here.
As with any artist of great affect, I find myself contemplating the reverberations beyond the work: the personal impact and the impact on genre, industry and culture. With Radiohead’s latest release, The King of Limbs, there is undoubtedly a ripple forming. Facebook and Twitter have lit-up with glee in response to Thom Yorke’s dance moves and the album which brought it to fruition.
For the sake of adding a little to the general discussion – and perhaps steering it from subconscious fawning to a more cerebral pursuit – I present these hypotheses which Radiohead’s work seems to be introducing into cultural consciousness.
The traditional record company model is defunct.
In Rainbows, Radiohead’s 2009 release stunned the industry with the way it defied the multi-decade proven structure. The efficiently cut the steps between Production and Reception. They omitted shameless promotion and let the work speak for itself. They cut out financial boundaries and empowered their fans with a sense of voluntary gratitude. In doing so, they knowingly created the most trustworthy form of publicity, word of mouth. The work was good, and it was presented optimistically: there was no trick, there was no pesky middle man, there was only artist and audience.
At the time, Keith Jopling repeated the thought which In Rainbows initiated: “How come the vast majority of major releases by established artists are non-innovative, conventional, publicity-machine driven affairs involving the usual parade of press, radio and TV mainstream slots, maybe with the odd free download, social networking or viral video strategy thrown in for appearance’s sake?” (Music Think Tank)
By presenting themselves in the raw, Radiohead seemed to be showing that the industry model was outdated or, at the extreme, completely defunct.
The general statement was passed around: In Rainbows has illustrated the model for an open marketplace, one which celebrates gratitude and loyalty. Many critics presented the album as a challenge to the industry to change their antiquated ways. There is a problem with this criticism though, the model it creates is reliant on the idea that the moniker “Radiohead” is immediately replaceable with that of any other artist, and this is simply not true.
Radiohead, at the time of release, had six albums under its belt, one of which, OK Computer, was rated album of the year by nine independent publications. If ever there was a band which needs no introduction, this is it. All of the things they rejected – promotion, mediation and price – were guaranteed by the success of their previous works. The King of Limbs is no different.
I discovered that Radiohead’s latest album had been released early via Facebook, when the clip for “Lotus Flower” was uploaded to their Facebook page. 4.9 million users are fans of Radiohead on Facebook, so word spread quickly. This simply couldn’t happen with a band of a smaller impact: this release would be a risk for any major Australian artist, for example, the market is simply not big enough for most artists to tap into. The record industry may be defunct as a model for Radiohead releases, but it has a very vital role in the development and promotion of new artists. Though there is a lot to be said about the amount of money which is spent in A&R on one-hit-wonders or ‘maybe’ hitmakers (bands which haven’t proven themselves but are snapped up early and then often left with debt), The King of Limbs’ positive reception has everything to do with the Radiohead fan base, and almost nothing to do with the relevancy of the record industry on any major scale.
Product should be key, price should be secondary.
Radiohead’s approach to both In Rainbows and The King of Limbs has been one I wish the industry had considered before their current demise. Both CDs and DVDs by major media companies have reacted to the “evils of digital download” by reducing the substance of their products. The ethos is simple, provide less packaging, save money, survive financially. When was the last time you bought an album with a full sixteen page booklet? Back in the 90s, the booklet was something to be treasured, the lyrics something to read through for extra insight. As the entertainment industry started to crumble in the face of online distribution, anything beyond the disc was eradicated.
The problem with this model is it treated the audience as worthless. Why would I buy an album if the digital version was the exact same product? Why would I pay for something which I could anonymously steal a replica of?
The King of Limbs offers a very cheap digital option (£9 for MP3, £6 for WAVE) alongside a more expensive PRODUCT. The capitalisation of the previous word has everything to do with impact. This is not ‘pay ten more and get the CD’, this is ‘here’s something worth owning and, yes, you’ll have to pay for it.’ The mentality to purchasing the “Newspaper” version of The King of Limbs carries not only the voluntary gratitude of In Rainbows but also notions of exclusivity and, above all, value. Not only do fans get the digital download, but they also receive two 10” vinyl records, in a purpose-built sleeve, a CD version of the album, and “many large sheets of newspaper artwork, 625 tiny pieces of artwork and a full-colour piece of oxo-degradable plastic to hold it all together.” The premium option brings back everything which the compact disc took away in terms of artwork and adds memorability. The King of Limbs is presented as commodified memory.
Before this begins to sound like a press release, let me come to my point: the process of purchasing Radiohead’s new album presents price as an exchange of value rather than a boundary. Price is an afterthought. Of course, although this is a nicely utopian order of consideration, it is something which other artists cannot immediately access. The guarantee of sales is instrumental in absolving the risk involved in a product of such value.
Loyalty is everything.
This hypothesis is an extension upon the previous one. Radiohead does not simply tap into a market they have created through success, they tap into a fan base which have, time after time, proven their loyalty. Over the years, we’ve seen many occasions where albums have been poorly received, despite an artist’s earlier success. Radiohead fans have stuck through innovation. The reception for Hail to the Thief was much less exuberant than it was for Kid A and In Rainbows yet their audience grew with them, they took the twists and turns. There are not many artists who can question their fan base, instead of providing them with answers to their expectations. Radiohead is one of the few bands whose evolution and change has been met with intrigue rather than stubborn stoicism.
The music video, as we knew it, is dead.
Now, it is certainly arguable that Radiohead isn’t the first to establish this hypothesis. Kanye West’s extended 2010 release critiqued the form indelibly. Comparison might also be made to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”: The clip singlehandedly marked the advent of the music video as an artform, but the form has retarded its own evolution since, by conforming to a trend which valued image over substance. Even Lady Gaga’s “Telephone”, perhaps the most hyped music video of 2010, did very little but perpetuate the notion that aesthetic should be valued over message (of course, this criticism ignores a greater Gaga narrative of monstrous pastiche).
“Lotus Flower”, the first release from The King of Limbs is a clip which is wonderfully vacuous beyond its relevance to the album title. The general concept has been done, by Tom Waits in “Lie To Me”:
and most startlingly, by Ginuwine in “Pony” (Thanks Clem Bastow):
But what is most apparent to “Lotus Flower” is that the clip could just as easily be for any song on the album, with a little tweaking. It elevates Thom Yorke to an image, a style, the object of fascination – he presents expression with little cohesion or coherence. The clip seems to epitomise the hook, “there is an empty place inside my heart”, while simultaneously circumventing it with the notion of physical expression.
“Lotus Flower” is, like other Radiohead clips, an exercise in minimalism, and it ultimately nullifies the music video. In the light of a release like this, we must wonder whether the music video has become a promotional tool and an elevation of ego. Is the form on the verge of losing its final remnants of originality and plot? Michael Jackson introduced the music video as a cinematic extension upon the musical landscape and modern artists have forced its regression to self-elevation and visual distraction.
The interactivity which new media allows has the potential to kill innovation.
In 2010, we saw how new media could be used to great innovation with Chris Milk and Arcade Fire’s “The Wilderness Downtown.” By allowing user interaction, the band appealed to the changing media landscape, and an audience ready to move forward with it. On the other hand, while Radiohead’s sales model may excel in this area, the album release itself does very little. However, that is not where my final hypothesis arises.
The complete openness of the “Lotus Flower” video clip immediately sent video artists to their desks to create mash-ups of Thom Yorke dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” and Ginuwine’s “Pony”
While everyone loves a good meme, the landscape of interactivity has the capacity to completely rob “Lotus Flower” of whatever artistic drive it had by opening it to pastiche. Because of the openness of the clip, it becomes common and banal. Just as the movie Downfall will be harder to take seriously after one of its more emotional scenes was reused again and again online, “Lotus Flower” can very easily become an empty vessel for parody, rendering the original song inconsequential to the grander possibilities of reuse. As our media sources multiply, or attention span shortens; so too are we affected by the adaptation of work. Though Radiohead’s new release may hark back to the days of vinyl where albums were a solid form of memorabilia, through lack of interaction, its impact may well be softened by the cries of louder voices and oversaturation.
We have come to expect innovation from Radiohead, and this time, it seems we were rewarded with answers, not questions. Our mass hypnosis on social media networks has created hype and album sales, but are we changed in the process? Should we expect to be? If Radiohead is the innovative source which questions our cultural logic, should we expect that from every release, and does that make us selfish consumers?
If you feel inclined, leave a comment below – how did you approach the album? Does any of this matter? Why or why not?
