Radiohead and the Hit They Spent a Decade Trying to Escape

Radiohead wrote it in 1992 and did not think much of it at the time.

The band have described the session in which it emerged as almost a joke, a deliberate attempt to sound like a louder, dumber band than they were. Thom Yorke had written the lyric years earlier, at university, about a night out where he had followed a woman around and felt pathetic about it.

The chord sequence turned out to be close enough to an existing song that the writers of that one, Albert Hammond and Mike Hazlewood, were later given a songwriting credit.

It came out in Britain in 1992 and did very little.

Then a radio station in Israel began playing it, and it spread, and by 1993 it had reached America, where MTV put the video into heavy rotation. It became an enormous hit and, for a while, the only thing anyone knew about them.

The band found this unbearable, quickly.

The problem was not simply that they were sick of it. It was that audiences at their shows were waiting for it, and visibly losing interest during everything else. They were being received as a novelty act built on one self loathing anthem, at exactly the moment they were becoming an extraordinarily ambitious band.

Yorke has spoken about the misery of playing to rooms full of people who wanted three minutes and would tolerate the other fifty.

So they stopped.

It disappeared from setlists almost entirely for years. When they did play it, Yorke sometimes sang it flatly, deliberately draining it of the thing that made crowds shout.

They spent the following decade making records that could not possibly be mistaken for that song, and became one of the most respected bands alive by refusing to repeat themselves even once.

Time has softened it. They play it occasionally now, and Yorke has said in recent years that he can enjoy it again, because enough distance has passed that it feels like something written by somebody else.

Which, given that he wrote it as a twenty two year old who hated himself, is more or less true.

When Bruce Springsteen and Bonnie Raitt Chose the Back Row

The most striking thing about Roy Orbison's 1987 television special was not how many stars appeared. It was where they stood. Bruce Springsteen, Bonnie Raitt, Elvis Costello, Jackson Browne, k.d. lang, Jennifer Warnes, and other celebrated admirers gathered behind Orbison, effectively volunteering as his backing band.

Filmed on September 30, 1987, at the Cocoanut Grove nightclub in Los Angeles, Roy Orbison and Friends: A Black and White Night placed the 51-year-old singer exactly where he belonged: at center stage. Through performances of "Only the Lonely," "Crying," "In Dreams," "Running Scared," and "Oh, Pretty Woman," the program presented his catalog not as a museum piece, but as living music that had shaped the artists surrounding him.

A comeback without a sales pitch

Orbison's presence in American pop culture had already begun to rise again. David Lynch's 1986 film Blue Velvet had used "In Dreams" in a disturbing, memorable sequence, introducing the song to younger viewers. In January 1987, Springsteen inducted Orbison into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Yet A Black and White Night made the case more effectively than any speech could. Its simple visual concept stripped away the distractions common to an era of bright colors and elaborate music videos. Dressed in black, wearing his familiar dark glasses, Orbison stood beneath the lights while the camera concentrated on his face, his phrasing, and the musicians watching him.

The supporting cast mattered because they behaved like supporters. Springsteen could fill an arena, Costello was an acclaimed songwriter in his own right, and Raitt possessed one of the most distinctive voices in American roots music. None treated the night as an opportunity to seize attention. They sang harmonies, played supporting parts, and visibly followed Orbison's lead.

Behind them was an equally meaningful foundation: musicians associated with Elvis Presley's TCB Band, including guitarist James Burton, pianist Glen D. Hardin, bassist Jerry Scheff, and drummer Ron Tutt. T Bone Burnett served as musical director, helping create arrangements that respected the dramatic architecture of Orbison's original records without merely copying them.

The voice remained the event

Orbison's songs demand unusual control. Many begin in loneliness or uncertainty, then climb toward emotional release. In "Crying," his voice moves from restraint to aching intensity. "Running Scared" builds patiently toward its final vocal ascent, while "In Dreams" unfolds in sections that feel closer to a compact opera than a conventional pop single.

The concert's closing performance of "Oh, Pretty Woman" finally allowed the stage to loosen. Springsteen and Burton added electric-guitar fire, but the famous riff still served Orbison's vocal entrance. Even amid so much talent, the song's center of gravity never shifted.

The special reached viewers in 1988, as Orbison's resurgence accelerated. He soon joined Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, and Tom Petty in the Traveling Wilburys and recorded Mystery Girl, though he died in December 1988 before that album's release.

That timing gave A Black and White Night an added poignancy, but it should not be mistaken for a farewell. It captured a return: respected peers stepping backward so Roy Orbison could move forward, one soaring note at a time.

Watch the supplied YouTube video below.

A Quiet 1963 Lament Became a Sweeping Hit 14 Years Later

Roy Orbison sings "Blue Bayou" as if composure is the only thing making distance bearable. Linda Ronstadt, arriving 14 years later, lets the same longing expand until it seems to fill the room. Neither approach changes the song's basic story, yet they create strikingly different emotional worlds.

Orbison wrote "Blue Bayou" with frequent collaborator Joe Melson and released it in 1963 on Monument Records, paired with "Mean Woman Blues." Its premise is simple: A weary worker dreams of saving enough money to return to a peaceful place, familiar people and someone waiting at home. The location may be idealized, but the homesickness feels practical and immediate.

Orbison Holds Something Back

The original is restrained not because Orbison lacked vocal power. By 1963, he had already demonstrated how dramatically he could build a performance, carrying songs from near-whispers to soaring climaxes. On "Blue Bayou," however, he keeps much of that force in reserve.

The gently swaying rhythm suggests movement without bringing the narrator any closer to home. The accompaniment leaves space around Orbison's voice, while the backing singers add a distant, almost dreamlike glow. His phrasing is patient and controlled. Even when he rises into his upper register, he sounds less like a man demanding relief than one protecting a private vision.

That emotional distance matters. Orbison's narrator appears to survive by imagining the future in careful detail. Home is not present; it is a picture he can revisit when the work and loneliness become too much. The performance therefore carries two feelings at once: confidence that he will return and the quiet fear that the return remains far away.

The recording reached the Top 30 on Billboard's Hot 100, respectable but smaller than many of Orbison's signature hits. Still, its understated mood gave another singer room to discover something different inside it.

Ronstadt Brings the Longing Forward

Linda Ronstadt recorded "Blue Bayou" for her 1977 album Simple Dreams, with Peter Asher producing. Her version is more spacious and polished, shaped by the warm country-rock sound surrounding her work in the 1970s. The instrumental setting feels fuller, and the harmonies gather around her rather than hovering at a distance.

Most important, Ronstadt changes the song's perspective through vocal presence. She begins with tenderness, but she does not keep the ache contained. Her sustained notes grow broader and more exposed, making the hoped-for homecoming sound less like a comforting plan and more like an urgent emotional need.

Because the song's central story is not tightly tied to a male narrator, the shift never feels forced. Ronstadt does not rewrite Orbison and Melson's composition; she changes where the listener stands. Orbison seems to be looking toward a faraway horizon. Ronstadt makes the audience feel the distance in her chest.

Her single became a major crossover success, reaching No. 3 on the Hot 100 and becoming one of her defining recordings. Its popularity did not erase Orbison's original. Instead, it demonstrated the strength of his songwriting: The melody and homesick narrative could withstand a dramatically different arrangement and still feel natural.

He made "Blue Bayou" sound like a secret promise carried through a long day. She made it sound like that promise could no longer stay secret. Heard together, the two recordings reveal how one song can hold both restraint and release—and how Orbison's quiet performance left enough open space for another voice to come home differently.

Watch the supplied YouTube video below.

When Claudette Went Shopping, a Playful Remark Became a Rock Classic

One of the biggest records of Roy Orbison's career began with an ordinary interruption. In 1964, Orbison and fellow songwriter Bill Dees were working at Orbison's home when his wife, Claudette, announced that she was going shopping.

As the two men later recalled the scene, Orbison asked whether she needed any money. Dees responded with a playful observation: "A pretty woman never needs any money." The remark stayed in the room after Claudette walked out, giving the songwriters both a phrase and a character to follow.

From a joke to a song

Dees later said that "Oh, Pretty Woman" came together in roughly 40 minutes. That speed makes sense when listening to the finished record. Nothing about it feels overworked. The song moves with the immediacy of someone spotting an attractive stranger and trying to decide, in real time, whether to speak or simply watch her disappear.

Orbison and Dees built the scene through quick emotional turns. The narrator begins with confidence and admiration, but uncertainty soon enters the picture. He wonders whether the woman might be lonely, then faces the possibility that she will continue walking without him. The ending reverses that disappointment, providing a flash of romantic relief without losing the song's street-corner directness.

The music makes that compact drama feel larger. Its opening guitar figure is blunt, low, and instantly commanding. Rather than easing listeners into the record, the riff announces itself like approaching footsteps. The rhythm section then locks into a hard, propulsive beat that gives the song its forward motion.

Orbison's performance brings another layer. Known for the soaring emotional architecture of recordings such as "Crying" and "In Dreams," he handles "Oh, Pretty Woman" with a rougher, more playful authority. His voice still carries vulnerability, but here it is balanced by swagger, conversational phrasing, and the famous guttural exclamation that briefly breaks through the polished vocal.

A different kind of Orbison hit

Recorded in Nashville for Monument Records and produced by Fred Foster, "Oh, Pretty Woman" was released in August 1964. It reached No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and also topped the British singles chart, becoming one of Orbison's defining international successes.

The record arrived during the British Invasion, when American pop was being reshaped by guitar groups from overseas. Orbison answered with a song that sounded firmly rooted in American rock and roll while remaining unmistakably his own. The guitar supplied the muscle, but his delivery gave the record its nervous human center.

That combination helps explain why the opening remains so recognizable. The riff is not merely decoration; it carries the story. Its steady, strutting pattern suggests the woman walking past, while the vocal captures the observer scrambling to keep his composure.

Behind all of that movement was Claudette leaving the house to shop and two songwriters noticing the musical possibility in a teasing remark. What began as a domestic moment became a record about attraction balanced on the edge of rejection. Listen again, and beneath the confidence of the guitar, Orbison still sounds like a man hoping the woman will turn around.

Watch the supplied YouTube video below.