Happy 10th Anniversary to Radiohead’s eighth studio album The King of Limbs, originally released February 18, 2011.
In December of 2020, I sent my wish list of 2021 album anniversary tribute requests to Albumism’s esteemed editor-in-chief. I included a note at the bottom: “I’m not desperate to write a retrospective for three particular albums, but someone should. If no one volunteers for them, I guess I’ll take them.”
Alas, here I am. The other two albums got snatched up by more eager writers, but it was I who got saddled with The King of Limbs (2011), Radiohead’s famously inscrutable eighth LP.
This situation seems to sum up how people think about The King of Limbs. This maligned work isn’t as instantly loveable as OK Computer (1997) or In Rainbows (2007), or as world-shattering as Kid A (2000). Impenetrable, repetitive, confrontational, unbeautiful, and vexingly short, most people would rather spend their time listening to (and writing tributes about) other Radiohead albums.
And yet, I have this feeling that The King of Limbs is important. It should be written about. Its black sheep status makes it interesting. The only problem is that these anniversary retrospectives are supposed to be somewhat positive, and I’m not sure that I even like this album. So let’s get to it, I guess.
My first time listening to The King of Limbs in researching for this project (the first time I had heard it in at least a year), the most immediately gratifying moment was the beginning of “Codex.” This is when the drum loops that define the first twenty minutes of the record are traded for some simple piano work, and everything quiets for a moment. The juxtaposition between the cacophony of the rest of the record and the beginning of “Codex” is obviously an intentional choice that highlights the beauty of that song—but that contrast also works the opposite way, making the rest of the album seem unintelligible.
As a writer, especially one who’s supposed to cover the whole record and not just one song, this stumped me. What about everything that comes before “Codex?” Apart from making “Codex” sound all the more sublime, what does that incessant drum loop do?
While electronic percussion had been part of Radiohead’s sound since Kid A, it never felt as pounding as it does on The King of Limbs. On the other albums, the electronic drum is either cast further into the background (see Amnesiac’s “Packt Like Sardines In A Crushd Tin Box”) or part of an album’s ongoing dynamic exchange between more spacious sounds and traditional rock percussion (see basically all of Kid A). While the drum loops on The King of Limbs obviously differ from track to track, and there’s the occasional dropout or change within a track, this is quite a long stretch for Radiohead to spend with one sound dominating their album. Something’s up.
Maybe about two years ago, I got a text from a friend: “Tell me which Radiohead album I should listen to if I feel like I need to cry.” The band has a completely justified reputation for darkness—I remember feeling completely destroyed the first time I heard OK Computer—but these first five tracks on The King of Limbs change your relationship with that darkness. Rather than seducing you with captivating melodies and inventive arrangements like they had in previous work, Radiohead just goes for the throat. Now, they’re coming for you regardless of whether you want them to or not—just like real darkness does.
The simple, repeating rhythms on The King of Limbs make the songs feel more primal than Radiohead had felt in quite a few years—perhaps not since OK Computer. No longer are you expected to parse the lyrics to figure out what makes the song a downer—the song is a downer before you even figure out what the words are. Thom Yorke’s vocals, wailing indecipherably over the instrumentals, tap into an anxious part of you that almost precedes language. And all the time, there’s this unrelenting surging forward of drums and bass.
Except when there isn’t. There are a few choice moments on TKOL where the drum loop cuts out altogether, but in ways that only intensify the record’s aggression. My favorite is about halfway through “Morning Mr. Magpie,” when the hi-hat breaks off and we’re left with a faint electronic pulse, some electric guitar, and Yorke moaning, before the bass comes back in with a looping line. The absence of the drums asks you to lean in, listen more closely.
Even though the interlude on “Magpie” remains foreboding, Yorke’s singing makes it feel seductive, almost dreamlike, basically serving as a siren’s song. Then, you’re jerked right back out it the moment the drums come back into play, back in the terrifying bustle of the real world, like an alarm clock has gone off. The final thing you hear on the track is Yorke singing, the same voice that had lent the bridge its peaceful quality, now embedded in the sound and subject that made the song so frightening, confirming all along that even the peace of dream was rooted in the terror. TKOL laid a trap. This time, the beauty isn’t there to get your attention; it’s part of the provocation.
The King of Limbs isn’t pleasant. Most Radiohead albums aren’t pleasant when you get to the bottom of them, but most of them at least pretend to be approachable on the surface. After In Rainbows, the band assumed that we’re going to listen closely regardless of how ugly things sound on the surface. By assuming credibility, they get to go somewhere they hadn’t gone before.
And so The King of Limbs isn’t the most listenable Radiohead record, or even the most interesting, but it does do something great. It’s more of a portrait than it is a novel, but it’s a very, very good portrait. I’m glad that they did it, and I’m actually glad nobody else snapped up this retrospective.
LISTEN: