You never see people with those kinds of tans and 'doos being so patient and quiet in those big of numbers. I have seen those people gathered together, shopping, chirping each other back, at professional ball games or at speed dating events held at my local gelato store, falling out of doors at last call -- and those people are loud. Save for the buddy-cheers after a tender falsetto that peirced the song mid-bridge, people were very well behaved. We were second row, close enough I could of ripped the 51 digitals and phone cameras out of the surrounding uplifted hands, and even with my bad shot, made it to Thom Yorke's face. During a piano song, awe dictated strict silence, I heard someone jingle keys at the back of the auditorium. For being so big, Radiohead, too, were very quiet. Perhaps it was the finesse of a mega budget (36 guitar changes costs, dog!), that loud, that welp and welter of sound, it can be quieter than the blare of an Empty Bottle show. If I had paid, I would have gotten my money's worth, because I could hear every note, every shred, every Johnny-time on the plinky xylo. I expected Mr. Yorke to kick us reluctant grumpus, star hating the star we made him, but you can tell he likes it, his dances were perfected, rather than flailed, he smiled when we thunder-clapped, he came to the lip of the stage so coquettish. He's the cool guy and he likes being the cool guy. Perhaps that is easy to be in Radiohead -- the cool guy amongst fops and dorks. Against the guitar player who is perma-arched like a question mark, hidden behind a shield of hair, humping the air, forever he fiddles with gadgetry, and mines the neck for rotten noises like "reeeoworrrrrr" and "zeeee-zeeee". That other guitarist, the tall one, he is a cousin to LeRoy Bach surely. Tall, willowy, that PBS police detective face cracking half smirk between the pedal-stomp. He was a giggler.
They were all gigglers, actually.