My first time was with a sinewy, tatted record store clerk. Jet-black locks swirled around his glassy eyes. An aquiline nose sheltered sharply shaved lines of facial hair, which converged around his smirking lips. His frame showed no evidence of strain from pulling a dolly loaded with several boxes: his shirt, more fitting on a mechanic, hung loosely on its wiry mantel. The nametag on his shirt read “Butch.” I was too young to know whether that was supposed to be ironic or flippant posturing. He contorted his wraith-like body around a worn wooden counter, which was laminated with promotions, posters of shows of now-defunct bands, and a hand-written note about the merits of washing your hands before handling merchandise. Butch pulled out a box cutter, slicing open the first box to reveal several dozen black jewel cases. Each case had the whitewashed silhouette of a distorted mountain peak with the large, blanched KID A text hovering above it. I approached Butch and could focus only on his hand as he held out the case. As I accepted his offer, he drawled, “You should just wait for the vinyl.” I promptly threw down exact change and rushed out. My wait for the midnight release of the new Radiohead album had ended.

I have always considered the record store release as a rite of passage. Even in an age of leaks and iTunes-exclusive peeks, there is still a redeeming quality in the purchase of the physical album. In the best cases, it acts as visual accoutrement to the music; in the worst, it is excess wrapping and an eyesore. Several weeks ago, I sat in front of my computer and downloaded Radiohead’s internet-only release of In Rainbows. This time, like the rest of the devoted, I turned on, downloaded, and tuned out. No Butch, no clammy anticipation fulfilled by fumbling with a cellophane wrapper; just a hollow chime to indicate that the file was successfully downloaded. 

Radiohead exists in a realm where criticism and praise have little to no meaning. They are sailing in unchartered waters, and as captains of their own ship (artistically and financially), they do as they please. They have chosen a Yeatsian path, where self-referential symbolism and traditional structures coexist. The skittering “15 Step” is not unlike “Packt like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Can,” the clanking opener on their 2001 release, Amnesiac. But what had been empty clattering stripped lifeless has been replaced with a gentler, more sanguine tone. Lead Thom Yorke sings, “How come I end up where I started?” expressing a bizarre orbit where danger of the tether being cut seems ever looming.