Top Five Tuesday :: It wears me out

radiohead

Top Five Tuesday :: Radiohead

Oh Radiohead, what a tumultuous time we have had in the musical stratosphere of love and hate, and all those songs that rise and fall in-between. No, its true, I never have truly hated you, but I have had weeks and months, and quite possibly years, of thinking that you were overplayed, overexposed, overwrought and overrated.

I grew exhausted and frustrated that any and every time I picked up a “best of” comprehensive list of music of the 90’s and early 00’s, I would have to weed through Radiohead songs, and not just one, but numerous selections all lauded as the best of the best. Do not get me wrong, I am not saying they do not belong up there among the musical hallowed, but when they were overshadowing so many other bands and artists, well it started to really get on my musically obsessed nerves.

There were other amazing alternative type bands and artists out there, so many to see and hear, but every time I turned around it was Radiohead this and Thom Yorke that, it was enough to get me to hate them.

Thing is, though, I never did hate them, how could I when there were undeniably songs I did love, and admittedly full albums I loved, as well. So, in the vein of Bends and Beyond: How I Learned to Love Radiohead (but still hate the hype) I present my top five favorite songs with my three sentence accolades and ramblings, as accompaniment. I would love to know yours, so please do share in the comments, and enjoy the music:

5. Talk Show Host

You want me? 
Well, come and break the door down. 
You want me? 
Fucking come and break the door down. 
I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready, 
I’m ready, 
I’m ready.”

One of the sexiest songs I have ever heard. We traded letters, typed up erotic tales and confessions of love and lost and loss, falling deeper with(in) each exchange. You could bring me to my knees reading me your stories, and poetry, across the lines, as we both simultaneously sighed in a climatic goodnight, but not goodbye.

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4. High and Dry

Drying up in conversation,
you will be the one who cannot talk
All your insides fall to pieces,
you just sit there wishing you could still make love.”

We jumped from together to apart to back together without taking the time to sort out what had failed in the first place. I am the one that left, though, both times I know you would say, and I can feel that you still blame me, still look back and see the lack, the failures, the pain I caused. I want to scream that it was not just me who let it all fall down, and I want to bleed out all the words to explain that I was a mess, broken and bruised, when I arrived (both times) not having any clue how to be worth anyone’s love, not yours, not anyone’s, even if we were the best we (n)ever had.

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3. Exit Music (For a Film)

Wake from your sleep,
the drying of your tears;
today we escape, we escape.”

The problem with movies is they tie your heart up in the double-knotted forever that fades to black just before the credits role, a happy after ever kind of thing that no real love could ever sustain. The problem with us was that we latched hard and fast onto fictional versions of who we wished we could be, projecting and reflecting them into each other’s eyes, dooming us from the start. The problem with me was that I never spoke up loud enough to say I am in here, loving you, just wishing you would see the me that was falling, and failing, too fast to stop.

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2. How to Disappear Completely

In a little while, 
I’ll be gone.”

I ran and ran, pushed and bit and spit out cruel words, I ended it even when I did not want to end it, at all. I was hurting so badly that I did not know what else to do, I was drowning and could not seem to say the words help, save me, do not let me let you go. I became someone I despised, and went back to being mistreated because of it, not that you ever turned to really see (why would you? You already had her).

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1. Fake Plastic Trees

If I could be who you wanted,
If I could be who you wanted,
all the time.”

Truth is, I was never what you wanted me to be, not really, and now you just feed your ego by thinking back on the poor demon girl with the hole in her heart. And now you paint me as an actress who never could love, a character in a song about a girl who was cold and cruel, and as a girl with hand-rolled cigarettes and nicotine stains on her soul who was always wandering somewhere else. Does it bother you that you might write me wrong, or how much it hurts me to read, or does it not matter in the all’s fair in the love and writing war, kind of way?

fakeplastic

Radiohead

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