Happy Yorke

Radiohead need a taste of ancient Roman discipline.

By Steven Wells
Add Comment Add Comment | Comments: 0 | Posted Oct. 4, 2006

Illustration by Hawk Krall

The Romans had a saying: Qui filiolus planto dementis primoris planto pop astrum. ("Those whom the gods would make mad, they first make pop stars.") Or they would have, if they'd had any pop stars.

But they didn't. Instead they had gladiators--sword- and trident-wielding meatheads who were considered the dregs of society. No coke, blow jobs or sacks of cash for these boys. Oh no. Just hack, slash, hack, hack, slash, aaargh, spurt, urk, thud, hurrah! And next thing you know you're being shoveled into the lion trough with a coupla dead Christians. And you know what? I think the Romans had it just about right.

I write this while still trying desperately hard not to projectile vomit with disgust after reading a shocking list of the "Top 10 Summer U.S. Concerts" published by stubhub.com. Here I learn American punters paid $145 to watch American Idols Live, $131 to see Dave Matthews (in the name of all that's holy, why?) and most distressingly, $148 to watch the festering slough of chronically depressing and hideously overindulged indie miserabilism that is Radiohead.

This is total madness. I wouldn't pay tuppence to watch Thom Yorke moan his bleeding guts out. The man's a total dick. In a recent interview on NPR the wonky-eyed nabob of sob was gently questioned about his incredibly annoying habit of standing there doing bugger-all when he doesn't "feel" the songs. After all, pointed out the interviewer, people pay good money to see the band.

"But would they rather I was dishonest?" asked Yorke, shocked at the interviewer's impertinence. "Because if I was being honest, I'd be on the train going home."

The phrase "Oh, for fuck's sake, what part of the word 'showbiz' don't you understand, you pretentious little bog-eyed sock puppet?" springs irresistibly to mind. They haven't paid $148 to see you be honest, you stupid little pop star. They've paid to see you sing and dance and jump around like a happy little monkey. That's your fucking job.

When the Romans gave military badasses like Pompey or Julius Caesar a triumphal procession, a slave stood beside the hero in his chariot and whispered in his ear: "Remember, Lord, thou art mortal."

A big bouncer should stand behind Thom Yorke onstage. And whenever the spoiled little tosser feels miserable and starts drifting off to la-la land, the bouncer should lean forward and whisper in his ear, "You're a cunt," and whack him up the jacksie with 800 cc of Prozac and a fully charged cattle prod.

Now that I would pay tuppence to see. Maybe even thruppence if he fought a gladiator to the death for an encore. Ave !

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