I don’t care if Radiohead plays Chicago or not.

Whew, that felt good. I’ve been thinking it since last week, when Chicago’s Cultural Affairs Department denied the band a chance to play a pair of shows in late June at Millennium Park. I just haven’t been able to say it out loud; it feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest.

It’s not that I don’t care because the city should uphold its contract with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra – although I do think that. The ensemble has a legally binding deal to rehearse there June 20 – the second night of the proposed Radiohead gigs – and organizations draft contracts for instances just like this, to not get shortchanged if a bigger, better deal comes along.

The reason I don’t care is because I would not have been at the show anyway. That sounds selfish, but it’s true.

Yes, the city would have made millions. Last year’s Lollapalooza brought in $2 million during the two-day festival. Radiohead also was prepared to lay down the $100,000 rental cost. Coupled with the infinite tourist revenue, Chi-town would have turned a pretty penny in the deal.

But again, none of those pennies would have been mine. Why? Because Radiohead hasn’t been a good band since 2000 and not a great band since 1997.

I could not sit through a show I’ve seen before – just better… twice.

In fear of sounding like James Murphy, I was there in 2001 when the band played Hutchinson Field. There is a reason the band, so many of its faithful as well as critics, consider it to be a staple in both Radiohead and Chicago rock’n’roll history. Seeing an act – which at this point in its career had yet to put out a boring album – joke with the crowd, barrel through two dozen tracks and cast its image across a jumbo screen and the sun setting skyline for the venue’s inaugural show was a day I’ll never forget. Much like the time in 1998 when I caught the group at the Rosemont Theater with several thousand others – a stark contrast to the 25,000 at Grant Park.

Those shows were great because the night’s set-lists were great. By this time, Thom Yorke had not turned his voice fully into an instrument and still used it to project messages and words and was still focused on song structure. By simple chronology, the shows were destined to be special.

The band’s debut, “Pablo Honey,” is an under appreciated blend of high-brow musicianship and youthful naivety critics often write off as a run-of-the-mill Brit pop act’s attempt at American grunge radio. The follow up, “The Bends,” (my favorite album … EVER) from top to bottom is a contrast between the brooding, electronic soundscapes that followed and honest, thoughtful tunes focused on being equally engaging and challenging. On “OK Computer” (my fifth favorite record of all-time) is where the band reached the pinnacle of expansively artistic fronts, while “Kid A” will forever claim the title as the most absurd to debut atop the Billboard charts. Far from its musical prime, the act since has released a collection of studio leftovers passed off as a legitimate record, and a “return to rock” with virtually no guitars.

But more importantly, what made these shows great, and why the proposed Millennium Park gig would not have worked, is because Radiohead used to have a good time being Radiohead.

If Yorke and his mates were to headline Millennium Park, you can bet they’d be expected to play a Greatest Hits set chalked full of material from their best records. The problem with this, however, is the band doesn’t enjoy playing those songs anymore. I’d rather miss the show, than stand and listen to a group, bored with itself, struggle through material it’s tired of, while frat boys in cargo shorts and Lance Armstrong bracelets beg to hear “Creep.”

It’s demeaning, like a monkey paraded out in a circle of onlookers told to dance on command. And if there is a theme in the band’s documentary, “Meeting People Is Easy,” it is the band hates being forced to do anything. Not in that punk rock, Mark E. Smith sort of way. But in a treacherous, sociologically exhausted way that people outside the quintet will never understand.

The group would be miserable, and no one should enjoy entertainers being held creatively captive.

If Radiohead wants to destroy its reputation by putting out meaningless, confused, self-indulgent studio albums – so be it. I just don’t want to see those meaningless, confused, self-indulgent songs played live.

But I’d rather see that, than a once great band forced to fake interest in its own legacy.

Daily Herald BEEP, Jan. 20, 2006