South Park, Oxford July 7th 2001

When, at the last minute, I came into possession of a ticket for South Park, Oxford, I felt a huge twinge of guilt. I have never been a Radiohead fan and was resolved never to become one. I know several people who would have happily flogged their grannies for a ticket, but I felt compelled to attend. Me and ‘The Head had an old score to settle.

Strange as it may sound, I first encountered Radiohead when I spent the summer on a kibbutz. Israel was obsessed by Creep. The unsolicited version (‘fucking specials’ and all) was in constant rotation on Israeli radio and a band I’d only vaguely heard of in the UK was talked, written and raved about in every ‘cool’ quarter of the country. The lyrics had been scrawled on the walls of a room in the kibbutz ­ I was a happy, confident, sun-tanned student back then. What did I want with creeps and weirdos and seemingly suicidal vocalists?

The more my friends, then colleagues, and, more recently (shock horror), my family, tried to convince me that they were phenomenal, the more I dug my heels in. I even gave away my copy of Pablo Honey to a friend. Seven years later I find myself battling against 40,000 manic Radiohead-heads to find a bed for the night in Oxford and have to plump for a ‘convenient’ B&B almost 12 miles out of the city centre. Mother nature is stirring up a menacing feast of rain clouds that threaten to piss all over Thom Yorke’s parade and Beck is playing an ‘acoustic set’ in support. Deep joy.

I consoled myself with the prospect of Supergrass, who were taking to the stage as I arrived at a densely clouded South Park (the trials and tribulations of finding my hotel, getting back into Oxford and locating the venue meant I missed out on Humphrey Lyttelton & Sigur Ros). Despite the dismal outlook, The ‘Grass were cheeky as ever, cheering the assembled masses with the hits; Lose It, Caught By The Fuzz, Moving ­ and that was just the first ten minutes.

With a veritable catalogue of singles in the bag, Supergrass can afford to take support slots easy, but I would have liked to hear more new material. The couple of new tracks they did preview were hardly a radical departure from the last album and a few erratic drop-outs gave the sound a shoddy quality. However, the new track described by Gaz as ‘unfinished’ had a cool Ska beat and got the crowd on their toes ­ more of the same please, lads.

Sun Hits The Sky (dedicated to a recently deceased friend) was a highlight, and it’s always good to hear Strange Ones out in the open. Richard III was approached with the usual gusto and choosing Lenny (with a hilariously elongated intro) as a set closer was a champion idea. The hordes were pumped and ready to go ­ but then Supergrass were always the obvious choice for that ‘difficult’ tea-time slot.

Time to hit the alcohol tent – and nothing could have prepared me for the hellish task ahead. After queuing patiently for ‘beer vouchers’, I squeezed myself into a gasping throb of thirsty folk. As I edged my way ever closer to the front a thousand other people seemed to hem me in from all sides. Moral was lifted when each lucky punter prized their way past, pints aloft, but I was painfully aware that Beck had been and gone during the 45 minute wait to get served. Mind you, the befuddled reports snaking their way back to the service area were not complimentary. Beck’s tune-scant acoustic session was not the tonic for a crowd who’d been drinking their way through the day since 1pm.

I’ve come to regard the quiet time, as I munched through my extortionately priced potato wedges and sipped at my watered down cider to a surreal soundtrack of the Ink Spots, as the calm before the storm. The clouds loomed ever lower and anticipation cantered toward fever pitch. I treated the tension with little reverence. I was so sure what to expect. Album tracks from Kid A, wailing, glum faces all round. My God, did I get it wrong.

I could never have predicted anything this mind-blowing. Airbag (2nd song in) nearly knocked my hard-fought-for pint clean out of my hand. After the shock had set in, I was forced to confront a band who were so far removed from my half-arsed pre-conceptions I’m ashamed to say I ever disliked them.

They play their best known tracks, and Lord they play them well. Paranoid Android, Street Spirit (Fade Out), Karma Police, Idioteque, Knives Out, No Surprises, Fake Plastic Trees need I go on? They work together better than any band I’ve seen play. Jonny and Colin Greenwood positively feed off each other for the whole two hour performance. Thom is a funny and friendly front-man who claims nervousness – but the band are really enjoying themselves, particularly Jonny whose commanding presence powers the show. Their renowned perfectionism makes for a precise and technically dumbfounding gig ­ but this doesn’t take anything away from the soul of the performance.

Faithful to studio versions, the songs are far more accessible in a live environment ­ even numbers from the two ‘difficult’ albums (Kid A/Amnesiac). I’d wondered how on earth Pyramid Song would go down in a ‘festival’ atmosphere ­ I hadn’t banked on it turning into a sing-a-long. It’s hard to rock out with time-signatures so freaky, but the crowd did their best and the longer we listened the easier it became, as if Thom was gradually reeling us in to his insane musical world. Watching him suddenly lose it and bust some crazy moves of his own gave us all inspiration. When the heavens finally opened at 10:15 it’s an almighty shower, but that didn’t prevent those of us brave enough to stay from devouring two encores ­ the second of which climaxed with The Bends. Blimey.

But the wet weather had me beat and I made a swift exit – despite suspecting there may be a third encore on the cards. There was, and I missed Creep, for which I will probably burn in hell ­ I may have disliked the track a long time ago, on July 7th at 10.30pm I was desperate to hear it.

Emotive, moving, powerful, passionate ­ take your pick. Radiohead are not the pained, pretentious progressives I took them for. They are, above all, a rock band. They may use their music to convey experimentalism, angst and political messages (although with T-shirts on sale for £17 a pop you have to wonder) but they’re also up for out-and-out entertainment. Thom is a gifted man. Radiohead are an ingenious band. I’ve never been so pleased to be wrong.

Anybody got a spare copy of Pablo Honey?

Johanna Payton.

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