Indie Americana

I don’t know about R.E.M.’s Murmur being the best album of 1983, but I do believe it is an extremely important album for an underrated music decade. At least, it is an essential text for understanding the American independent music landscape that bustled with energy below the thick layer of high selling pop of the day.

Part of the importance of the album is how borrows partially from the post-punk creativity of early 1980s, but only does so to create a launching pad for creating strikingly enticing and unique paths of melodic rock filled with a surprising dexterity and cohesiveness for an emerging band. Traces of a distinct non-Blues inspired post-punk are sprinkled throughout the album, but are overwhelmed by a vibrant new organic and string-led (guitars) pop sound.

For example, “Pilgrimage” has a cavernous, sober, and rather methodical opening sound which is quickly swept aside for a more upbeat and pop chorus, one that even breaks into a collection of voices and guitars the second time around. Immediately next in line, “Laughing” begins with a dub/reggae skank-influenced rhythm a la The Slits and Pop Group, only to quickly forgotten as the song surges with a gentle, but firm melodic structure. “Catapult” is similarly deceiving as it starts dark, heavy, and inward, especially with the heavy marching beat, but changes tone and opens up as it introduces a wavy chorus with a high-pitched mandolin guitar feel. “Moral Kiosk” and “9-9” have a jagged, more chaotic, and rhythmically experimental (industrial and tribal) vein, but are heavily supported by an undercurrent of melodic guitars and astute pop chorus structuring. And, between “Shaking Through” and “We Walk”, highly melodic and upbeat tracks (musically), one can find a somewhat hidden musical aside that sounds unlike the accompanying tracks. These contrasts show a band bursting with creativity and ideas and amazingly adept at bring in disparate elements into a cohesive whole.

Again, these post-punk elements serve as references and do not define the overall music. Rather, R.E.M.’s ambitious melodic rock experimentations are what give the album its feel and depth. They are clearly not afraid incorporate tight pop choruses that structurally resemble classic song-writing in many songs, but that incorporate sounds and energies unlike that of the contemporary scene. “Moral Kiosk” and “West of the Fields” use staggered and competing vocal chants in the chorus parts to create a very interesting feel of tension that moves forward in an exhilarating manner like a marching procession. “Catapult”, as mentioned above, has a chorus that breaks free from the shackles of its lyrical contemplations and seemingly carries you on a countryside journey.

Indeed, one thing that is striking about the album’s music is how much of the songs seem like ideal companions for driving through the gentle and picturesque country roads of the southern United States, like the Blue Ridge Parkway. The chief reason for this is how the music flows so naturally and with little to no adulteration from high-tech gimmickry being used repeatedly across the Atlantic Ocean at this time in music history. Here, I think is part of the appeal of the music. It attempts to be new, but does not forget the craft or art of constructing sound and melody, something not that far off from some sounds of the region where R.E.M. hails. I don’t want to link their sound with bluegrass music or Allman Brothers gently and gorgeous guitar streams, but I think there is a spirit or undercurrent in the not-so-distance background of Murmur that elicits and justifies these types of mind or memory associations.

The other impressive element of Murmur is how it seems somewhat minimalist and gently muted at times, yet seems to resonate and reverberate in the mind. It’s not the louder D.I.Y music variety that is emerging in American underground and indie music scenes at the same time, yet on repeated listens, it really does creep in the caverns of your ears and head and becomes an infectious, extremely rich sound.

In conclusion, let me say that I listened to Murmur for the first time just recently as I am somewhat ignorant or indifferent about R.E.M in general. Still, with my little knowledge, I can see the direct connection with Automatic for the People, the group’s much ballyhooed album of the 1990s and probably its last great piece of work. My memory and instinct suggest to me that Automatic was so successful critically and commercially as it represented a return to R.E.M.’s strengths of creating understated and vibrant resonant melodic rock. Even in terms of sound, there are blueprints laid out in Murmur that are copied in Automatic, like the affected, deepened voice in parts of “Talk about the Passion” that reappears in “Man on the Moon”, or the somber and gentle feel of “A Perfect Circle” in comparison to “Nightswimming”. More than the direct comparisons, though, there is an overall feel that binds the two albums, one that is rooted in the South, yet striving to be different with a simplicity and unpretentiousness that creates its own aura and charisma. The title for Automatic is taken from an expression used by man behind a Athens, Georgia eatery, and I can’t help but thinking that R.E.M. had a strong yearning to return to its roots and glorious, less complicated (not superstardom) early years. Murmur is that return and how fortunate they were to have such a memorable reference to re-examine. click here to
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Make You Sweat

Quite frankly, I have never had much of an appreciation for live albums, or at least not enough to feel compelled to include them in any best-of rock and pop lists. My lack of enthusiasm for this type of album stems from various considerations and prejudices: they inevitably seem more geared for die-hard fans; they appear more as filler or fan-appeasement material during extended album production hiatuses; generally they seem to lack elements of cohesion as they include songs from all parts of an artist’s career; they are so-well planned or controlled that they rarely capture anything unique or historical – different or stunning interpretations of well-known songs, an extremely memorable or moving performance with a distinct crowd feel or reaction, etc.; and they can easily fall into cliché tricks such as documenting the crowd sing the chorus parts in unison of well known songs, particularly at the end of a set.

Off the top of my head, I could probably only name a handful of performances that, in my mind, do break from the norm and would warrant special canonical status. Johnny Cash, The Allman Brothers, and Nirvana immediately pop into my head. Well, after recently listening to Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963 for the first time, I would quickly and easily add Sam Cooke’s name to this narrow list.

The recording has a lot of elements working in its favor, many of which help the album transcend mere fantastic live album status and join the list of legendary rock n roll moments and all-time great albums. First, the album was released at a time when the album format was still in its early stages, or far from the album as art concept that was developed in an extremely creative manner towards the end of the decade. So, releasing a concert recording as an album often represented a more than adequate or even better substitute for the standard studio album, which was often filled with singles and cover filler, especially in the R&B world. Indeed, a concert album in the case of a great and often-touring soul singer probably represented more accurately the talents of the artist at hand. This is clearly the case with Sam Cooke.

Another impressive element of Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963 is how the venue and performance display a unique intimacy and energy, which lend itself to the extremely cohesive nature of the musical performance. Listen to how the Harlem Square Club bustles with audience movement and feedback, on the one hand, and how you can discern certain movements of Sam as he moves around stage, claps his hands, or speaks to the audience, on the other. You can almost feel the sweat dripping off of Sam as he cajoles the crowd into twisting or heeding his advice on love and forgiveness. Also, the recording gives a good sense of the proximity of the tightly playing band in relation to Sam. Much of this closeness is probably due to the effectiveness of the technical recording (placement of mics, sound quality, etc.), which captures so many sonic nuances of the performance. It’s hard not to feel like you have been transported to the venue and are standing just several feet from the stage.

With regards to audience participation, it’s interesting to note how they cheer and applaud, but never in a uniform and prolonged manner like many of us are accustomed to hearing at the end of a song in other standard concerts. Here, the enthusiasm of the crowd is measured more by the crackle of voices in response to Sam’s singing or talking – essentially, the “amens” of the choir or parishioners as they praise the words of Sam the preacher man – and the movement of bodies (probably in dance movement) around what I imagine to be club tables. These are different times with different reactions based on a different style of show, and the album so dutifully documents these moments and gestures.

The immediacy of the music is what gives the album its cohesive feel. Here you have Sam and his well rehearsed band moving from one song to another with extreme ease, with one song seemingly blending into another. Sam knows his audience, the type of venue, and, consequently, and the importance of keeping the rhythm going and the song introductions humorous, soulful, or enticingly passionate. Ultimately, the tightness of the music exudes an infectious quality, which has the listener quickly moving his/her body in unison with the beat and in response to the singing. When the album finally concludes, it feels like the ride has been too short.

In the end, Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963 represents not only a snapshot of an artist at his peak in terms of performance, but an important historical document that captures the feel of a unique style of concert in a period seemingly far away from today. While I have listened to only a handful of live albums in my lifetime, I nevertheless feel rather confident in speculating that few live albums can match the importance and feel encompassed in Sam Cooke’s terrific performance. Taking it one step further, Live at the Harlem Square Club, 1963 is probably one of the most important R&B musical documents of both its era and of all time, which automatically gives the recording elite album status. click here to
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Cali Dreaming

Beck’s Odelay is pure 1990s southern California (or at least what I imagine it to be since I only first stepped foot in the state in 2007). It’s innocuous Hollywood strip or Venice Beach hipsterness with its mélange of self-professed freaks, aimless troubadours, and skateboard thrashers painting the laidback horizon. It’s the thrift store threads with a collage of artistic allusions to choose from for its irreverential dialogue in a retro piano bar.

I can’t help listen to Odelay and be reminded of some of the cultural landscape that pervaded the decade. Movies that immediately come to mind are Get Shorty and A Life Less Ordinary, flicks set in Cali and that borrow heavily from Elmore Leonard’s style of making the slightly sleazy and criminal elements of the world both cool and comical, all in a laidback and quirky setting. In fact, the latter film effectively uses Beck’s song “Deadweight”. The hipster criminal element of Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven, with its Vegas hipsterness not so removed from that of southern Cali, also seems somewhat connected to the mid-1990s Beck vibe. Although not necessarily influenced by Beck, sunny-music producing 1990s artists like Sheryl Crow, Smashmouth, and Sugar Ray don’t seem that far removed from elements of Odelay’s sonic collage – alt country pop, fuzzy organ sounds, etc. Of course, it’s hard not to be reminded of The Beastie Boys’ move to Cali to join Capitol Records and to record Paul’s Boutique along with The Dust Brothers, key collaborators on Odelay as well.

The mention of these sensory and cultural links is merely to demonstrate how Odelay seems distinctly set in a place and a time. That is not to say, however, that the music is dated and tarnished some 10+ years after its first original release. In fact, the album possesses a unique energy and an ever-changing internal identity that makes the music coquettishly elusive, yet ultimately attractive. Its leftfield antics and mind-bending lyricism, all within a broad socially acceptable domain (i.e. without the dangers of actual drug consumption or delinquent acts), certainly give the music a unique and lingering charm that invites repeated listens.

When Odelay was first released, I was passively aware of the music. “Where It’s At” was played ad naseum on radio and in live TV performances. Other tracks got plenty of airplay and the album was a hit among many friends and acquaintances. For some reason – probably because I was cynical of the hipsterness set on a large audience scale – I intentionally ignored the album. Listening to it now, I can’t help but be rather impressed and disappointed that I didn’t give it a fair chance back in the day.

Sure, it’s hard not to take notice of the massive production trickery that go into several of the songs and that give them an amusingly schizo feel. But, it’s the seemingly more straightforward parts in other songs – the countrified slide guitar on “Lord Only Knows” and the chorus of “Sissyneck”, the repetitive funky beat and Doors-esque organ on “The New Pollution”, the languid gait of the guitar on “Jack-ass”, the folksy “Ramshackle” – that give the album that extra edge and credibility, that is, the conviction that this stream-of-consciousness mumbling singer actually knows what he is doing and has some soul. These more straightforward elements no doubt feed the sterling production on Beck’s just as impressive Mutations album.

Does it matter that I have no idea what the hell the guy is saying? Not at all. Sure, I guess trying to decipher the lyrics could be somewhat annoying for those that value the words. I, on the other hand, usually consider lyrics in a secondary fashion, only considering them once I have determined the value or attractiveness of the music. In the case of Odelay, I am definitely attracted, which should lead to some consideration of the words. But, you know, when it is this fun listening to the sounds and feel of an album, the guy could be talking about apple strudel and bird watching, for all I care.

So, some 10+ years after Odelay’s original favorable impression on the pop and rock landscape, it is still pretty easy to see why this album is considered one of the more important albums of the decade.

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Radio Nexus

LL Cool J’s Radio deserves the proverbial rock critic label of classic mainly from a historical point of view as it provides a concise summary of rap of the Old School variety at a time when Old School was reaching its commercial and artistic peak. Indeed, Radio effectively encapsulates the themes and musical stylings that made Old School so vibrant for a time and provides a chronological and musical bridge between the bubbling popularity of Old School in 1983-84 and the megastardom of 1986, namely with Run DMC’s Raising Hell.

Radio is strong, concise, and consistent statement of its time, an album that was rooted deeply in the urban geography of the boroughs of New York, where rap was essential born and nurtured, yet one that seemed to reach beyond its geographic scope and offer a boldness that went well beyond the simple, provincial bravado spewings that so characterized this period of hip hop.

The strength of the artistic work is due in part with the urgency and hunger of the charismatic voice, that of LL Cool J, a teenage phenom of sorts. The chiselled, taut, and semi-angered vocal delivery (contrasted with the more silky R&B style of later LL Cool J years) cuts through the stern minimalist beats and meshes well with rockier edge of the musical production of Rick Rubin, the another key element in the validity of the album. Indeed, Rubin’s production give Radio an overall artistic seriousness and endurance that outsizes novelty or one-trick pony acts of the time (think Fat Boys, Doug E Fresh) and outpaces most albums from contemporary Old School stalwarts. Put simply, Radio has weight and substance: a hearty beef stew versus the beef broth and tomato soup of many other artists of the time.

The greatness of the album should not be overstated, however. Musically, it is clearly a product of its time. While it does foreshadow some of the sound that would make Run DMC’s Raising Hell a tremendous success, certain musical and thematic elements – namely the Rubin influences – would quickly become obnoxiously cliché and overused. In other words, the artistic foresight of Radio ultimately displayed a small time window. Even within the album, there is a notable gulf between the truly classic tracks and some of the rest. While this is not particularly surprising since rap albums of this time were clearly in a middle development stage, these musical setbacks are not easy to forget or overlook.

Despite its dated elements, Radio does display great historical importance as it marks a clear and coherent nexus between the best that came before it and best that was soon to come. With regards to its Old School foundations, Radio is clearly employs the DJ mode of the scratch as one of its key sonic weapons. As for beats, the album does not hesitate to borrow inspiration from Run DMC classics “Hard Times” and “It’s Like That” in songs like “I Can’t Live Without My Radio” (intro and foundation beat) and “You Can’t Dance” (a sped up “It’s Like That” beat). Rubin also seems particularly fond of the rockier elements of DMC first two albums and does not hesitate to use them to a minor degree in Radio and, of course, to a greater degree in his later collaborations with DMC and with The Beastie Boys on tracks like “Brass Monkey”. We see the Old School vibe in the thematic area as well. In numerous tracks, the jocular dis/cut/snap method prevails in several songs. And, “Dear Yvette” provides the humorous, although arguably semi-misogynous track that follows in the footsteps of UTFO’s classic “Roxanne, Roxanne”.

With its Old School roots and identity in tact, Radio effectively branches out and offers several musical statements that would provide a partial blueprint for one of Rick Rubin’s subsequent blockbusters. “Rock the Bells” is an obvious stand-out track thanks in large part to its devastating, arse-shaking polyrhythmic beat – a rhythmic structure that would foreshadow Run DMC’s stunning “Peter Piper” on Raising Hell. The only thing missing from the former track to make almost identical to the latter one is the cowbell rhythm slice, an element that is curiously found in the background of “It’s a Lie”, a track that also seemingly foreshadows another element of DMC’s megahit album. Put simply, “It’s a Lie” sounds a lot like “You Be Illin’” both musically and in terms of the comedic nature of the theme.

So, Radio is reverent and uniquely imaginative and bold at the same time. It is well aware of tradition, yet has a vision for the future. In this way, the oft-used label of “Middle School” for describing LL Cool J is appropriate as early albums like Radio helped cement him as a link between the recent past and fast growing future of rap. Still, I think it is unfair to exclude LL from the Old School moniker, especially when used in highlighting historical importance. Radio is one of the handful of albums that truly approach the classic level – mind you, classic singles abound in the pre 1986 period – and that so precisely summarize the feel and growth of a musical genre that was soon to explode both commercially and artistically. Unfortunately for LL and the artistic longevity of the album, the fast and dynamic changes in the hip hop spectrum, particularly with regards to the development of the album concept, would make LL’s and Radio’s impact on the scene somewhat blunted and short lived. click here to
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Sous Chef or Assistant Manager

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The Olivier of Rock

The 1970s David Bowie was arguably a pretentious postmodern prima donna and a man of a numerous faces who, at his creative height, was constantly and deftly moving from one personality to another and inevitably teetering towards identity crisis, not to mention self-destruction. But, these same tendencies and characteristics helped make him perhaps one of the greatest theatrical actors of the 20th Century – up there with the likes of Barrymore, Olivier, Gielguld, Robeson, Dench, Tandy, Julie Harris and the lot.

The grandiose notions of pretense that he espoused and controlled so effectively elevated his art of acting and took him to experiment with an assortment of images, concepts, and artistic styles like few others before or since. That he did his acting in the music industry should not detract from his cultivated thespian greatness or his mastery of artifice and affectation, key elements in most type of acting and which allowed him to invent and embody so many diverse and interesting characters and to sing with so many distinct voices (and accents).

1972’s Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is the album for which he and his rock n roll theater became internationally famous. The fictional killing of Ziggy in the final UK concert is legendary and serves as the image by which many associate this album and the title character, yet the songs themselves only loosely tell the story of the most famous rock n roll alien (all apologies to George Clinton and his Mothership). While Ziggy and his band from Mars is an interesting and novel notion that is eye-catching and represents a brilliant exercise in pop star making, what truly makes the album special is the mastery and manipulation of different stage genres, themes, and settings in an extremely cohesive and competent musical oeuvre.

Ziggy is replete with theatre and seemingly demands audience participation, not unlike some NYC cinema showing The Rocky Horror Picture Show on Halloween. “Lady Stardust” has the languidly rolling cabaret piano effect that made “Life on Mars” so dramatically moving. “Star” is made for Broadway – the essence of the musical Grease, the famous production created and released for the first time at around the same time of Ziggy. “Hang on to Yourself” is the theatre of idolatry and imitation, referencing and encapsulating Bolan’s adorable and hip-shaking rock boogie of Electric Warrior in one song. How economic! “Five Years” and “Rock n Roll Suicide” are overtly histrionic, yet are enormously captivating and inevitably moving. They provide seemingly perfect bookends and certainly set the tone for the drama, characters, and images in the body of the album. “Moonage Daydream” and, to a lesser extent, “Ziggy Stardust” are the blueprints for another realm of performance and theatrical attitude and face changing – that of glam.

Ziggy is certainly not the first in the long line of Bowie’s impressive interpretive works of the 1970s. Hunky Dory, released a year before Ziggy, also experimented in various theatric styles including the aforementioned cabaret and showtunes. What sets Ziggy apart from its predecessor, however, is its move towards a larger, more unified overall artistic concept and tone (like the setting of a stage with distinct design pieces), something that would define subsequent Bowie albums in the 1970s, from the Orwellian inspiration of Diamond Dogs to the plastic soul of Young Americans and the avant-garde and Teutonic electronic music experimentations of the Berlin series (Low, Heroes and The Lodger). One could even argue that the outer space imagery (notice four songs have the word “star” in them, while another carries the word “moon”) and glam pretences of Ziggy make it the most fantastic, overtly ambitious, and delightfully decadent of the 70s albums. The creation of the title characters and the outrageous and audacious lyrical phrasing (“I'm an alligator/I'm a mama-papa coming for you/I'm the space invader!/I'll be a rock and rollin' bitch for you!", or “There’s a starman waiting the sky/He’ll like to come and meet us/But he’s afraid he’ll blow our mind”) give the music a surrealistic, otherworldly feel, tending towards delightful and guilt free escapism, certainly a nice counterpoint to the somewhat static and drab social and economic environment of 1970s England.

Of course, I would be remiss to focus entirely or disproportionately on the fantastic and grandiose exercise in imagination and dramatic myth-building that is Ziggy. Beyond the makeup, allusions to the solar system, and pompous strut, Ziggy is bursting with great swinging and even soulful rock n roll. The great Mick Ronson guitar riffs of “Moonage Daydream” and “Ziggy Stardust” are well known and have been commented on countless times. And, the sped up Lou Reed NYC swagger with the Elton John/Little Richard rock piano in “Suffragette City” has fed classic rock radio for years now. But, how about the steady, swaying, and seemingly effortless groove between the loud outbursts of guitar-led insistence of the chorus on the song “Soul Love”? A most friendly tune made even more captivating by its internal heterogeneity. The backing singing on the album, often by Bowie himself, in the chorus parts is also noteworthy as they provide some sublimely soulful moments. Check out the “ohh, ohh, ohh’s” in the background of the overdubbed chorus vocals of Bowie in the aforementioned “Moonage Daydream”. They provide the melodic soul that drifts and elevates and, not unlike the elements of “Soul Love”, creates a catchy contrast with the raucous blasts of guitars as Bowie screams “Freak out in a Moonage Daydream, oh yeah!” The energetic, earnest, and proud chorus of “It Ain’t Easy”, carried in part by a gliding slide guitar and the sound reminiscent of early 1970s southern rock of the States, is yet another example of the pure rock groove and soul of the album. In sum, the sound of Ziggy still holds its weight today despite the somewhat dated image gimmickry associated with the album.

Rolling Stone magazine has listed Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars as number 35 on its list of the 500 greatest rock n roll albums of all-time. Considering the prolific and high quality – not to mention flat out influential – album output of Bowie in 1970s and taking into account that Ziggy is what really put Bowie on the pop and rock map, the number 35 seems ridiculously low. Perhaps the album Low could vie for serious top 20 consideration for its tremendous influence on later music trends and artists, but a safer bet for the rather conservative and traditionalist Rolling Stone would be Ziggy, an album that along with its predecessor, Hunky Dory, helped usher in an extremely innovative period for Bowie and, more generally, in rock n roll (see explanatory footnote below). Indeed, the 1970s production (and later influence) of Bowie rivaled the amazing streaks of creativity of both the Stones and Beatles, both of which benefit from numerous albums each in the Rolling Stone top 30. In this light, then, number 35 for Ziggy seems rather unjust.

Admirers of Bowie can take refuge in the fact that he almost single-handedly spearheaded his own artistic zenith, whereas groups like the Beatles and Stones relied upon more than one person. Of course, given the dramatic shifts in character, sound and vision (to almost borrow the title from one of his songs) that he almost continually sought, Bowie was mostly and inevitably a one man theatrical show with a relegated supporting cast. Top billing for their great interpretive art is what the Gielgud’s and Olivier’s received. Logically, then, Bowie deserved the same.

Footnote: Despite the ongoing excesses of 70s Cali singer-songwriter rock and stadium rock, the 1970s also marked a period of stimulating and influential – although less popular – experimentation, part of it inspired by the works of Bowie and Eno, among others. click here to
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Out With The Old

OK Computer was the album that woke me up, shook me, and made me giddily excited about current music. Until then, I had been in almost permanent class rock, R&B and old school hip hop rewind.

I first heard it while living in Ecuador in early 1998. At the time, I was listening mainly to tapes of several rock classics, including Synchronicity, The Joshua Tree, The Allman’s Brother and Sisters, and a compilation of Bob Marley tracks from Catch a Fire, Burning, and Natty Dread. (Yeah, I had managed a couple of more recent fare, like Portishead’s second and eponymous album, but a few listens to it on the first lonely nights in the capital encouraged me to put it to the side for a long while in the name of my own sanity and survival.)

I wasn’t totally oblivious to the current Anglo-American music landscape. The Spice Girls’ “Spice Up Your Life”, Chumbawanmba’s “Tubthumping”, and The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony” were the tunes being spun on the Ecuadorian pop radio. Clearly, then, I was not a total social reject, but I was certainly a long ass way from hipsterness. For some reason, I had not heard the new album from Radiohead, a band that I was familiar with only by name, probably for “Creep”.

My introduction to the album came through a US study abroad student who was also renting a room in the apartment of my Ecuadorian host family. One day he showed me what seemed to be a very intriguing collection of current music, although I had to bashfully admit that I was rather unfamiliar with most of it. He kindly offered to play me some tracks from his favorite albums at the time. All of it was rather entertaining and offered nice background noise as we chatted about various subjects, but it wasn’t until he put on OK Computer that I started to really take notice. I quickly asked if I could get a copy on tape and he generously obliged.

Enclosed by myself in my room at night, I started to listen to this new music that had so caught my attention. I was immediately transfixed; I was left marveling at the beautiful, remote, and floating tonalities created by the diverse guitars and Thom Yorke on songs like “Air Bag”, “Karma Police”, “No Surprises”, and “Let Down”. Songs like “Paranoid Android” and “Climbing Up the Walls” threw me into a joyous fit of excitement and sustained attention, provoking thoughts and feelings of controlled rage and social protest. By the end of it all, I was left in utter amazement at what my ears had just heard. Why had I not been aware of this before? Where had this music and this band come from?

Shortly after, I started to realize that I wasn’t the only one to notice. MTV Latin America was playing the “Paranoid Android” video regularly. I saw a cover of Rolling Stone – 1997 year in review issue, I believe – featuring them on the front or a key article on them. The secret was out, and while one part of me wished that this music was just for me and a select group, I was simultaneously thrilled to see how universally embraced this album was – sort of that “I knew it” sensation of self pride.

In the ensuing weeks and months, OK Computer became my top and perhaps only spin on my walkman. I was completely sold on the greatness of this album and band, so much so that I seemingly forgot about the other music in my abbreviated collection. Better said, the other stuff seemed a bit tired and irrelevant at that point. Before leaving Ecuador and heading to Chile, I distinctly remember giving my cassettes of The Police, U2, Marley and company to friends and how easy it was to part with them. Somehow, OK Computer was all I needed and all I could talk about. My Chilean housemate, Chris, must have noticed because he would jokingly jibe that OK Computer was a cheap derivative of Bauhaus and nothing more.

But, I was not to be swayed in my thinking. This was the best album that I had heard in a long time and certainly the best of the 1990s. The emotional intensity and the utter conviction of the overall sound were astonishing. The album was pure catharsis.

Looking back, I realize how OK Computer marked the beginning of my quest to seek out new and more diversified current music. Back in the US, the Radiohead web page, music criticism pages like pitchforkmedia.com, and independently owned record stores were my new and frequent destinations. My mission was clear: I had to be extra attentive for I couldn’t let the next OK Computer come out without me realizing for so long again. click here to
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