Flying in from Los Angeles for a show is always a gamble, but some bands still justify the jet lag. Radiohead playing their first London concert in eight years is one of the few things left on earth worth crossing an ocean for. The O2 Arena was full before the lights even shifted. The crowd was mostly men, polite in that British way that looks like reservation but reads like reverence. No theatrics, no peacocking, no pre show hysteria. People stood there the way people stand when they know something important is about to begin and they do not want to embarrass themselves by reacting too soon.
The lighting operator deserves credit for the way the night opened. The flicker was slow, patient, deliberate. Not dramatic. Not a countdown to an eruption. More like the room clearing its throat. A few flickers, a drop in brightness, a hum moving through the air. Not tension, not suspense, just a shift in concentration. The arena felt like it was narrowing its focus to a single point, which turned out to be the five silhouettes walking onto the stage with the quiet confidence of men who have nothing left to prove.
They began with “2 + 2 = 5,” which remains one of their sharpest opening salvos. It hits like a thesis statement. Not angry, not preachy, just accurate in a way that feels rude. Yorke sounded exactly how he should sound at this stage in his life, a voice with less elasticity but more intention. “Airbag” followed with the kind of propulsion that reminds you how a band can still feel young without pretending to be.
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The early run was clean and controlled. “Jigsaw Falling Into Place,” “All I Need,” “Ful Stop.” No begging for nostalgia, no look how iconic we are energy. Just a band doing their work with the precision of people who still take it seriously. “Nude” softened the room. “Reckoner” gave it shape. “The Bends” landed with the kind of weight that only comes when a band plays an old song without clinging to what it used to mean.
The first real spark of heat came with “There There.” The drums pulled everyone forward by instinct. It was the first moment of full body engagement from the crowd. Shoulders unlocked. Heads lifted. Voices came out. It was sensual in that way Radiohead can be without ever acting like they are trying to be. Controlled wildness, if you want to call it something. The feeling an engine gives off before it redlines.
Then came “The National Anthem,” and the entire arena shifted shape. The bassline is already a force of nature, but live, inside a room that size, it turns physical. The song does not ask permission to move through people, it just does. The crowd finally allowed themselves to react with something louder than polite appreciation. If there was a moment where the show loosened its jaw a bit, it was this one. It was messy in the right way, the enjoyable kind of mess, the kind that proves a band can still hit a nerve without relying on theatrics.
But the emotional center of the night, the point where everything sharpened, was “Fake Plastic Trees.” It is one of those songs that has survived too many late nights, too many misinterpretations, too many bad covers, yet somehow still carries a pulse. The room changed as soon as the opening chords landed. People who had been still for most of the night finally let themselves sing, not loudly, not drunkenly, just honestly. It was tender without being sentimental. The song gave the arena a single breath, the kind people exhale only when something hits an old nerve in a clean way.
By the middle of the set, the crowd had opened up. It was not chaos, it was not euphoria, it was something quieter and more interesting. Communion. People singing with intention. People listening harder. People reacting without the need for dramatics. “No Surprises” felt almost gentle. “Optimistic” carried more warmth than cynicism. “Pyramid Song” arrived with its usual weightless gravity, a song that seems to hang above a room rather than move through it. “You and Whose Army” landed with a small, satisfying bite.
“Exit Music” and “Street Spirit” closed the main set with the kind of control only Radiohead can pull off. No theatrics. No strain. Just sound arranged with clarity. It takes nerve to end a main set that quietly in an arena that large. It worked.
The encore felt like a new pocket of energy. “Let Down” lifted the room. “Weird Fishes” shimmered. “Idioteque” made the arena feel alive without losing its composure. “Present Tense” grounded everything again. “The Daily Mail” reminded everyone that the band has opinions that still land. “Paranoid Android” hit with the same fractured brilliance it always has. And “Everything In Its Right Place” closed the night with a calm that felt earned.
Here is the truth that emerged by the end. Radiohead sounds older now, in the honest way, not the diminished way. The sharpness is still there, but the delivery is cleaner. The urgency has shifted into something more deliberate. They are not performing for approval. They are not performing to be mythologized. They are performing because they still have something to say and they have learned how to say it without wasting a movement.
The crowd responded in kind. What began as polite observation turned into something closer to participation. Not frenzy, not nostalgia worship, but awareness. People listening. People singing when it mattered. People giving the music the attention it deserves without demanding it turn into something louder or bigger than it is.
Flying across the world for a show is only worth it when a band still has substance. Radiohead does. They proved it without raising their voice. The night did not end with an explosion. It ended with clarity. Some bands want to be adored. This band wants to be understood. There is a difference, and it is the reason they still matter.