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Sorry if my english is not good sometimes.
London, GB. Everything happened at the Royal Festival Hall, a Monday in which nobody was working because of the Easter. A quiet, gentle, clear but cold city was discretly announcing the series of concerts of the London's Synphony, the same which would count with a special guest: Jonny Greenwood, who would play his favorite instrument: Martenot ondes (an electronic instrument invented in 1928 by Maurice Martenot that mixes keyboards and strings for free-sliding). But the open secret ran out. There would be a guest even more special: Thom Yorke, who, it was said, would play new material. A two hours concert that was fluctuating between arab sonorities and a Radiohead spectrum, kind of Kid A.
At the right time, an introverted, skinny and stooped Greenwood showed up, who at the end of the scenary took over of his onde martenot. Later, the most expected presentation came: "Ladies and gentlemen, Thom Yorke". The passionate applause discovered the fans from hell that were covering themselves between their serious and educated contemporaries. Everybody was there for him, for the one who sings to misery while he penetrates our ears. He sang "Arpeggi" and "Where Bluebirds Fly". Then, an overflowing ovation was produced, something strange in English people. People standing admired the cursed poet of our generation. A second entry just to thank the applause, the exasperated screaming. But was not Greenwood the special guest? Was not him who had to be ovationed for his solo proyect Bodysong? It looked that lot of them had forgotten his interpretations from minutes before: "Piano for Children" and "Smear".
It was one of that special concerts that does not happen very often, the start of the spring, sometimes absent in this island, with an inescapable desire to meet Radiohead's brain in person. Outside of the building, the concept of London was summarized very well: a bunch of international admirers, some had come from New York and even a mexican. The cold was starting to force, like every night, but the atmosphere was perfect: the Big Ben and London Eye in background, the sound of the Tamesis playing with the wind, the moon was so big that it illuminated all shamelessly. All prepared with cameras, tickets, vinyls, cd's and anything that was allowed.
"He's coming", my friend said, but three fearsome bodyguards, though very polite, kept Yorke protected of his compulsive fans. A quick glance. Little, blonde, disarrenged hair, pretty, a total freak but with a book under his arm while signing everything given to him: The Labyrinth of Loneliness by Octavio Paz, therefore my surprise ended in a fast comment in spanish. Everybody shut up as Yorke was like What?! I didn't know who looked more scared, if he or I. But I answered him I was talking about the book he was carrying, and he answered very content and smiling: "Oh, yes, it's a present; somebody gave it to me, but I can't read it because it's in spanish". Where was that Thom Yorke of the little eye, bizarre till death, reservated till introversion? What the hell was he doing with a book in spanish that is about the Mexicans' identity? What could an english understand about our national identity and about what is "rajarse"*? But does not the myth say he was inspired from that book for a song?
The weather was perfect. Thom was laughing and talking like any mortal. He shaked hands with an English girl who congratulated him for his fucking amazing music. He knew he had the throne. Now I was in front of him and with a big smile, I asked him the obligatory question: "Can you take a picture with us?". Gloomy and darken silence. I had broken the myth. Everybody seemed to know the rules, but me. Not only his face was of astonishment, also everyone's around. Ups. The seconds were becoming an eternity. The astonished face answered with an overwhelming negative. But my face astonished him more: "Why not?". "Sorry, but the car is waiting for me" and he ran. I had broken the mysticism, that pact between him and his redemptive. I broke more than silence.
But it was not just an unreasonable negative, it was the fallen of an archetype, of a true musician. How to believe in what he sings, screams, cries, in his eternal anticapitalist pro-poor people speech, if he keeps three bodyguards besides him, runs to a Mercedes Benz with driver and wears Nike? Where is his speech then? I guess rock, as power, corrupts. In the end, though he doesn't like it, is a rockstar, with the pros and cons of fame.
In that way, the loneliness labyrinth stopped being mexican for a night, though English do n'o remember what it is living in loneliness anymore.
London will survive to everything only for its music.
*Rajarse: it is a mexican expression, it makes reference to run away or be intimidate from such situations.
