The "pay what you want" fire sale that launched In Rainbows in October wasn't a new idea so much as a perfect amalgamation of distribution tactics that bands large (Smashing Pumpkins) and small (the thousands on MySpace) have tried since the birth of the mp3. As technorati, Radiohead are to indie bands what Led Zeppelin were to broke old bluesmen: They took the ideas and got people to scream about them. Three months later, the questions keep flying about their business: How many people bought the download? What was the average sum they chucked in the tip jar? Is it true that, even though Radiohead basically gave the files away, a slim majority of listeners went ahead and stole them out of habit?
It's fair to say that the shop talk eclipses interest in the B-sides record tucked into Radiohead's $80 discbox (which it packs in alongside In Rainbows on both CD and vinyl, plus pix, artwork, lyrics-- and if you have to ask if that's all worth the price, it's clearly not meant for you). Like the main LP, this bonus disc could not be mistaken for the work of a band other than Radiohead-- from Thom Yorke's nerve's-edge balladeering, to ever-slighter splashes of experimentalism, to guitar tones as fussed over as other band's hairdos. But it also catches the band at its most maudlin: Not only did Radiohead cram their leftovers onto this bonus disc, but they also gather all the mopey, overplayed tropes their last album left behind. Radiohead have always capitalized on tension, but here, that tension turns to exhaustion.
The playlist wades from one slice of paranoia to another, the ear going most often to the incessant horror film piano-- and to Yorke's voice. His strained falsetto and near-soul-singing on "Down Is the New Up" deliver the risk-taking you'd expect from an odds-and-ends release, but the cynical/alienated rut into which he grinds himself has the persistence of a toothache. "Up on the Ladder", which has been under construction since the 1990s, is all climb, no teeter-- and elsewhere bare lines like "I can't face the evening straight/ And you can offer me escape" sound like the guy at the next bar stool that you've been turning your back to all night. Here, Yorke sounds like neither a post-millennial prophet nor an uncanny empathist, so much as a crank.
Still, the thick fog that hangs over the album doesn't obscure all its gems. Though it goes nowhere, "Go Slowly"'s slow burn would have fit on the proper album-- for that matter, it could've been an outtake from any of their last four records. The pristine "Last Flowers" may be a textbook Yorke ballad, but at least it's a pretty one. As the album's only wake-up call, "Bangers & Mash"'s antic drums grab your attention until Yorke's crude snarling lets it go again-- although the itchy, uncomfortable feeling it gives you is an interesting break from an otherwise sweatless set. Best-of-EP honors go to "Four Minute Warning", a breath-catching little campfire song about (what else?) taking cover from an aerial attack: Radiohead have predicted World War III for so long, it's no surprise they'd stay calm when it shows up.
But its weaknesses notwithstanding, this bonus disc isn't meant for the public at large; it's for the fans, who've studied these songs through bootlegs, YouTube clips, and clues on websites. To them, it's an extra goodie in the luxurious Discbox stocking. And as net-savvy as Radiohead may be-- and for as many goofy webcasts and sketchy websites as they've posted over the years-- they still seem to love their hard, physical packages. These aren't just the studio versions of "Up on the Ladder", et al.: They're the canonical, compact disc editions, polished and packaged as official versions. A lesser band might have crammed some bootlegs and demo takes in here, but when Radiohead put something on disc, they want it to count. For a band with so many ideas about digital life, they still treat the record as king.
