I remember a brisk Tuesday night in October of 2000, I was a 15 year old boy then. There I was, pacing back and forth as I got ready to be taken to art class after school. “Let’s go mom! I’m gonna be late.”, I shouted as I crawled into the family car smiling ear to ear. My knuckles white from gripping my pencil case in anticipation, we drove 12 miles or so for what seemed to be 4 hours. When we got to the mall where my art classes were held my aforementioned white knuckled hand slammed the car door in my mom’s face before she could even tell me to have a good time.
You may be asking yourself why a 15 year old boy wanted to get to art class so badly. “Was there a pretty girl in his class?”, you might be thinking. No, there wasn’t. “Was he really good at art and just couldn’t wait to start drawing and shit?”, might be your next question. No. I wasn’t too bad, but that wasn’t it at all. Fuck all that shit! It was Kid A time bitch!
I ran into the now defunct Sound + Vision II record store and frantically scrambled to find the beautiful, glowing display case stocked with the oh so coveted disc. I grabbed one with my sweaty mitts and made a b-line for the register. I was never so glad to shell out 14.99 in my life. As I turned from the counter I’m sure I belted out some sort of cheesy “Yeah!” with the unavoidable fist pump like a dorky teenager in some John Hughes movie after he steals his first kiss from the popular girl he’s obsessing over. It was shortly after that when it hit me. I stopped dead in my tracks. My stomach felt like Nolan Ryan just threw a heater at it. I had just realized that I had to sit through an entire hour of art class before I could hear a single solitary note of it. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m fairly certain I started to cry right there in front of the pet store.
That right there was a true story. All too true. I only share this story with you because I’ve been reminded recently that I’ve relived that story in varying similarity three more times since then. Each time just as grizzly as the last. As it turns out these are the costs of being a Radiohead fan. With each announcement of a new Radiohead album begins a brand new eternity to endure. The only problem with complaining about these agonizing stretches of time is that, once it arrives, the music you’ve waited for is so blindingly genius that you end up feeling bad about the bitching. Thus Radiohead fans, you and I, are doomed to repeatedly reap the rewards of impatience.
As we wait for whatever these boys are going to grace us with this time around, all we can do is keep that in mind over the next few months. Happy Waiting.