Other than Yorke, their star quality is set on dim. O’Brien is taller than most, with floppy hair and a floppy shirt; he looks like a scruffy extra from a Merchant-Ivory film. He talks and guffaws with bassist Colin Greenwood. Greenwood’s boggly eyes and hip get-up — a pinstriped jacket over a crumpled T-shirt and jeans — looks vaguely rock-starry, but no more so than any Williamsburg wannabe.
Greenwood’s younger brother, Jonny (who plays the guitar, the laptop and anything else that happens to be at hand), appears as though he’s gotten lost on the way to a geek convention. He shifts his weight from foot to foot; his arms hang from their sockets like rope. The candlelight catches his cheekbones. Drummer Phil Selway is wearing a suit and has the distracted air of a dad, which he is.
And Yorke, compact, busy, ever so slightly intimidating (is it his drooping eyes, or is he actually angry?), moves lightly in big boots. He’s laughing about the band’s hotel: “We arrived there, 8 in the morning, on three hours’ sleep, and it was like a country club, just heaving with golfers in Pringle sweaters. I took one look and went, ‘Nooooo!’”
They’re a disparate bunch, Radiohead, but tonight they share one mood: positivity.
Blender, 2003