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Oeeoooooeeeeeeeoooaaaaah' says the scruffy little chap in red jim-jams, standing on the organic, low emission, carbon neutral stage in front of 50 000 odd people, all of whom are going 'Oeeoooooeeeeoooaaah' in return. Thom Yorke (for it is he) always brings to mind the narcoleptic dormouse from Alice in Wonderland. The weight of the world sits on his eyelids, making it dreadfully tiring to open his eyes and actually focus on the undulating sea of acolytes prostrating themselves before him. Perhaps it is all those energy efficient lights shining down from on high that keeps those peepers hidden, perhaps not. Needless to say, the man doesn't require sight to sing, and sing he does, solidly, for three hours.
The entrance exam for Radiohead must have been extremely hard to sit, as every single band member including Thom (or T Hom to use his gang name) demonstrates a complex array of musical dexterity. Equally at home behind the drums, strumming guitars, tinkling the old Joanna or singing, the band sheds instruments like beads of sweat. Les Pauls fly off and Fenders fly on and everyone seems to switch positions with every song. This band is a fluid and synchronous machine, oiled up and polished to a harmonious sheen by a thousand performances and 7 studio albums of consistently individual, exceptional rock music. Driven by the knowledge that they have utterly nothing to prove but what the hey, they'll prove it all again anyway.B
The relentless broiling sun of Cyprus seems like a distant memory as I gaze out the window at the drab Grey blanket smothering Sol UK(tm). Twelve days of intense sitting and reading, a lot of frenetic lying down and at times even some furious wallowing seem to have passed by in a blink. Cyprus Spirit was quaffed in vast quantities and profit margins for local brewery and purveyor of all things liquid, Keo, rose dramatically. Even their truly diabolical Keo Vin Rouge was consumed with gusto. Some Olympic standard games of pool volley-ball were played, and not even the random intervention of that 'crazy wind' could prevent the boys team from triumphing.
A venerable birth was celebrated and the neighborhood regaled with multiple renditions of 'Happy Birthday'. Brandy sours were compared and contrasted, moussaka and skewered pork consumed and no doubt there are remnants of the 10 kg b'day cake still in existence today (and for the next few years). Balls were whirled and skills developed from a childhood spent trimming pineapples on the old farm, finally came into their own.
Not that we didn't stray from the pool and bottle from time to time. Our trip to Kalamata, er, Kalimari er, something beginning with 'k' gorge was most enjoyable, though it wasn't long before we were gorging ourselves in a different way on yet more vast chunks of pig at a local eatery. We also did a boat trip and never has the word azure been more appropriate to describe the waters around the island, as we all set off for hours and indeed hours of jaunty ocean-going fun (and more pig, hurrah!)
Now we are home and forced to console ourselves by stroking our Sky boxes and sipping on that bottle of Cyprus Spirit that's been rotting in the cupboard since the last family jolly. Was it all just a dim hazy dream? No! Look here and remind yourselves.
Birthday 2.0 on the weekend, excellent!
B
Oeeoooooeeeeeeeoooaaaaah' says the scruffy little chap in red jim-jams, standing on the organic, low emission, carbon neutral stage in front of 50 000 odd people, all of whom are going 'Oeeoooooeeeeoooaaah' in return. Thom Yorke (for it is he) always brings to mind the narcoleptic dormouse from Alice in Wonderland. The weight of the world sits on his eyelids, making it dreadfully tiring to open his eyes and actually focus on the undulating sea of acolytes prostrating themselves before him. Perhaps it is all those energy efficient lights shining down from on high that keeps those peepers hidden, perhaps not. Needless to say, the man doesn't require sight to sing, and sing he does, solidly, for three hours.
