My middle school years were a lonely time. I had moved to a new school, in a
new city away from my parents, surrounded by hundreds of new faces, and I
struggled to find my bearings. Navigating the confusing maze of hallways and
classrooms, I found myself walking with my eyes glued to the ground, as if eye
contact would expose a part of me I didn’t want seen by others. I observed
friendships from a safe distance, taking notes for future reference. I floated
between brief interactions here and there, never quite managing to hold on
to anyone. As much as I craved human interaction, I also avoided it, choosing
to spend most of my time in isolation. It was during this period of my life that
I discovered the band that would influence the very fabric of my thoughts and
emotions and almost single-handedly keep me alive through dark times. I
found Radiohead: the musician’s musicians, the choice of angsty and depressed
teens everywhere, the soft voice whispering comfort amidst dissonant chords
and brooding textures. For a young boy, lost and confused, wondering how to
disappear completely, they provided me escape.
My first encounter with the Oxford-based band happened the same way it
happens for most: through the song “Creep”, their much loved (much hated
by the band) worldwide hit, an ode to teenage infatuation and insecurity.
The self-deprecating lyrics captivated my mind and shocked my young ears.
Thom Yorke’s desperate pleas for “specialness” mirrored my emotional state
at the time; I, too, felt like a creep and a weirdo, albeit in a different context.
I was a socially awkward, socially anxious teen struggling with the physical
distance from my parents and the figurative distance from my peers. In no
way could I be considered “special” or interesting; I was a skinny, unathletic
kid (a damning death sentence for my middle school social class) desperate
for a “perfect body” and a “perfect soul”.
Moving into high school, I found life, in many ways, less bleak. A few
fortunate acquaintances stabilised over the years into genuine friendships,
my body grew into its frame, and my modest academic track record elevated
my social status ever so slightly (I still wasn’t cool, but I had a future, or
so it seemed). Yet certain chronic anxieties lingered. The parental and
societal pressure to succeed academically and “go to a good college” weighed
on me heavily, along with the constant need to be accepted and loved as I
was, a flawed and inadequate human. Every day I wished I could be someone
else completely. I sought refuge mainly in “Fake Plastic Trees” and
“No Surprises”, both alarmingly depressing songs yearning for acceptance
and, in the latter case, suicide (at least in my interpretation). Except for when
I was sleeping or in class, these songs were on constant repeat, a dark but
reassuring backdrop to my daily consciousness.
Towards the end of “Fake Plastic Trees”, Thom Yorke wistfully laments,
“If I could be who you wanted, all the time, all the time”. I have felt the
gravity of those words towards my parents, my friends, and even myself.
In fact, that has been the general theme of my life. It is no wonder then that
I identify with and rely on Radiohead’s music so heavily. Their songs accept
me for who I am, make no complaints, and allow me to dwell for however
long I need. In dark rooms and dimly lit streets, when my thoughts threaten
to consume me, they hold the foundation and push back against the beating
tides. They are my center, when I spin away.