There are two colors in my head
This is the sound of sweet morning struggle. The organ warmth doubles as bedclothes, kicked softly and folded over a limb. They are the perfect temperature, cool and comfortable. You are half out and half in, caught between two voices. The first tells you to pay attention to the details, the light, the smells, and the day. The second is the fever of sleep— loose, tumbling gibberish that’s nevertheless you, pulling you back down to unconsciousness. One arm up, reaching towards the surface, feet kicking down, a heavy ascent. The light wins, but for a little while, through the shower and the coffee, you get to keep those blue bits of color, the words in your ear. Even then, you’re losing what you learned, the hum and swirl is disappearing. By the time you reach the door, keys in hand, it’s gone.
Let’s ignore the clone tale hidden inside “Everything in its Right Place” and its attendant warped whirring kidakidakidakidakida whispers and concentrate on the feel of it. Thom Yorke and Phil Selway are the only ones on this track, the recording of which was a crucial event. There were frustrations within the band about how things were progressing, namely people not playing their accustomed instruments and not knowing what to do with themselves, and this track was Yorke’s fig. 1. Listen to this, he seems to be saying. It is still us. What we could be.
There is a gorgeous order and space here. It just breathes. Particularly after all the voices start to quiet down a bit, and we’re left back where we started, with the comforting keyboard telling us that everything is a-okay after all, even though it is clear that nothing will ever be the same again.