With the release of Kid A in 2000, Radiohead abandoned the arena-thrill that had marked their three previous, rock driven albums (Pablohoney, The Bends and OK Computer) and embraced a sound rooted in amorphous electronica and computerized textures. Kid A struck many skeptical devotees as a soulless work, thick on production but lamentably bereft of pop vitality. Others lauded the band for its cracked adventurism in seeking out a new sonic landscape.
Their follow up, Amnesiac, offered melodies even more heavily fractured and did little to reconcile the dichotomous camps of Radiohead listeners. Then, 2003's Hail to the Thief represented a slight return to form as it occasionally offered snarling guitars and earthy rhythms. But it clearly was no The Bends 2.0. For Radiohead, evolution was and is a permanent state.
This fact complicates one's understanding and view of Thom Yorke's debut solo venture The Eraser. Musical enthusiasts admire the intricate arrangements and shadowy electronica that pervade the album, and the burning pathos that Yorke's voice exudes is plainly genuine. But inner Radiohead fanatics yearn for deeper innovation and can't help but smart over The Eraser's intermittent lapses into stale synth-pop.
Certain tracks operate as mini-masterworks while others distractingly highlight the absence of Yorke's virtuoso band mates as opposed to illuminating his own skill. This casualty of circumstance — that Yorke is the lead man for an absurdly accomplished quintet — ultimately precludes his album from greatness and renders it just a competent and listenable work.
"The Clock" is aptly symptomatic of The Eraser's wary contradictions. It's solidly crafted underwater pop: Yorke's floating vocals overlay a shifty flow of percussive hops and ghostly howls. However, it readily comes off as a skeleton of "Where I End and You Begin" from Hail to the Thief. It strips the track of chugging guitars but openly channels its nervous shudder.
"Atoms for Peace" recalls "Kid A" (the title track from their 2000 release) with its subdued roll of beats and soft melancholia. Yorke's vocal line on "Atoms" is far more intelligible than that of its counterpart, but the lulling flow that they share is unmistakably similar. Yorke cannot be heavily faulted for consciously or unconcsciously using past Radiohead output as a structural template for his solo endeavors, but this awareness may obscure nuanced touches that he generously supplies.
The early numbers off of The Eraser, however, put their skill in plain sight and sound. The title track is unabashed electro-pop. A synth-piano, accompanied by relentlessly flashing effects and swirling arrangements, anchors the thrust of the song until a mesmerizing coda of shuffling NES beats sets in. Despite the fertile sound, Yorke's fragile voice never becomes enveloped by its cacophonous surroundings. Rather, his singular pitch pierces the computerized layers that could potentially cloud a non-robust delivery.
His voice also holds together the excellent follow-up track "Analyze," a descriptive lament that denounces its target without being unsympathetic. Twilight pianos and synth-streaks provide the trappings for Yorke's familiar top-form vocals.
The stunner, however, arrives with "Black Swan." Sporting a poppy, sliding cadence and calm tempo, "Swan" eases up the accelerated groove of "I Might Be Wrong" and turns an ostensibly airy and understated drifter into an infectious piece of electro-pop art. It's one of the few tracks here that would rest comfortably in Radiohead's oeuvre.
The Eraser's most engrossing yet mystifying elements are the dueling subtexts that arise from Yorke's cryptic lyricism. He mines his wounded psyche and appears to intertwine heatedly political diatribes with stark ruminations on the despondency of failed love.
On "Skip Divided," Yorke, in a static murmur, confesses, "I'm desperately in love, in love. When you walk in the room, everything disappears." Moments later, though, he resentfully scoffs, "I'm a dog, I'm a lapdog, I'm your lapdog, yeah," which could be an allusion to the pejorative leveled at British Prime Minister Tony Blair and his alleged fealty to President George W. Bush — both of whom Yorke proudly scorns.
On "Atoms for Peace," Yorke wistfully pines for resolution: "No more talk about the old days. It's time for something great. I've got to get you out and make it work." But such optimistic designs seem foolhardy in our current reality, a time of "so many lies, so many lies."
The most crestfallen moments of The Eraser never achieve the poignant beauty of Radiohead's stirring ballad, "I Will," but they do ache with comparable urgency. Elsewhere, he overtly bemoans our world of ubiquitous sinister forces. Set to jittery dials, the closer "Cymbals Rush" invokes an apocalyptic rush of dread with its lines, "It's all boiling over, all boiling over. Try to save your house. Try to save your songs." Clearly all is not well in the land of The Eraser.
Yorke's strict electronica ably buttresses the eerie flow of his imagery. The hovering wave of computerized effects shrouds the whole of his enterprise in a ghostly aura. Above all, The Eraser is a work of texture, mood and atmosphere. Nigel Goodrich's production is so sleek that, at times, the songs become indistinct, collectively gelling into a sometimes shapeless continuum of sound.
This is especially true of the album's second half. It curiously brought to mind Beck's Sea Change, (also produced by Goodrich) which, although unforgettably gripping, often came across as one elongated and floating song. Thus, Yorke's purist dedication to futuristic sonics is a double-edged sword. It yielded consistency but often to the detriment of inventiveness.
Ultimately, The Eraser is an album that we all knew Thom Yorke was capable of creating and, make no mistake, it's capably rendered, but it lacks the dynamism that is eagerly expected of his thriving music intellect. So, if nothing else, The Eraser will call to mind past Radiohead glory and prime us for their next aural onslaught.
Grade: 3 out of 5 stars
