Radiohead and Philosophy - Brandon W. Forbes [93]
Heidegger’s demand that western philosophy re-think what it means by presence—and his point that attempts to investigate the nature of existence, therefore, will always privilege the presence implied by the word “is”—centers around the concept Dasein. Put simply, Dasein, as its German definition suggests, refers to “being”—specifically, human “being.” In Heidegger’s scheme, human “being” is not something static—it is not exclusively presence—but rather something bound up in its particular temporal and material circumstances. It’s a movement through a world of material possibilities. So to privilege what “is,” according to Heidegger, is to ignore that which has withdrawn from “being,” but which, nevertheless enables that “being.” To privilege presence is to erase its conditions as well as the many opportunities that may be possible when we re-imagine what has enabled those opportunities. Technology, he argues, is one of the primary withdrawn tools that enables that “is” to the degree that we don’t think about it—or see its alternative potentials. Think email. Think cell phones. Think cars. Think iPods. Think laptops, even tables and chairs. Think Pablo Honey.
Technology is an invisible backdrop in Pablo Honey. It’s merely the vehicle for hearing (in my opinion) damn fine alternative rock. We’d expect the band to sound much the same playing live. Who cares about the ways studios provide technological environments that quite seriously shape the music we hear? I want guitars. I want drums. I want infectious bass lines. I want microphones amplifying screams. Forget that these are technologies themselves. But in Kid A, it’s different. Technological environs become very, very important. The studio is an instrument. Sound and technology merge. New possibilities arise. Who cares about standard guitar rock? I want samples. I want drum machines. I want disfigured vocals. Think email viruses. Think dropped calls. Think strobe lights and blown speakers. Think Kid A.
We’re shaken out of our ordinary understanding of rock music—and the ways it renders its technologies invisible. And that’s kinda scary. But it’s also very familiar. I’ve been assaulted by technology in ways designed to attack me (computer viruses, identity theft) and I’ve been assaulted by technology in ways designed to “help” me (advertisements in every virtual and physical place my eyes can go, dropped calls, laptops that crash while I’m working, and yes, even car crashes). When technology makes itself visible, I usually don’t want to see it. I’m sure this would be different if I were a programmer. Or an engineer. But I’m not. I’m a teacher. I require that the equipment that surrounds me work properly so that I can get through my day. When it doesn’t, I’m pissed. I don’t have the time to worry about it making itself visible. I want it to shut up and do its job. I want it to withdraw.
Which helps explain the particular, familiar, anxiety or panic that domes Kid A. My desire for withdrawal, Kid A says, is a fantasy. There’s no such thing. Maybe the anxieties produced by my technologically situated lifestyle are something that haven’t found adequate expression in the culture of “the information age”—the culture into which I was born. The synthetic opening keyboard of “Everything in its Right Place” immediately announces that this is not the standard guitar-driven, withdrawal of technological and musical opportunity. Perhaps this making-evident of artifice is the depiction of a new kind of pop music. Perhaps this is a new voice articulating something we haven’t heard pop music say before. Maybe that’s why it sounds disfigured.
Making Sense by Not Making Sense
The song “Kid A” itself is striking not only because its voice is disfigured to the point of unintelligibility. Nor is it only because it’s the second in a trio of opening songs that dramatically announce a new direction for a very popular band. To me, “Kid A” is striking because it is beautiful—and I’m not sure why. The electrocution of (I assume)