Radiohead reviews = porn. Noodly, po-mo, avant-pop porn.

It’s taken me a few days to make mention of the Radiohead concerts in Toronto last week. Or, I should clarify, my inability to attend either of them. Much like Ottawa’s playoff knockout, the whole thing was just too raw to report on immediately.

I exaggerate, of course. But I am pretty bummed that, despite literal hours spent on the phone, ticketmaster.ca, craigslist and eBay, I was unable to snag tickets of any sort. This pains me, as one’s favourite band does not always show up in one’s city, particularly when said band’s touring schedule is sporadic at best.

Of course, all reports indicate the shows were mind-blowing. The band was evidently in a jovial, playful mood, courting the audience and chatting between songs. I can’t stress how enticing this is, particularly after the inconvenienced contractual obligation that was their 2003 Skydome stop.

So I’ve been trying to console myself by reading various reviews and blogs of the shows, most of which are well-written and comprehensive. And it's great to hear that the new stuff stands up, and that the old songs still crackle, and that the new album's slated for release in March of next year, and that there will very likely be another tour to support it. But reading all this stuff is still proving to be most unsatisfying – I mean, sure, there’s the instant gratification, but how am I to cope with the emptiness and existential despair afterwards? I look, I want, I can't have. It’s a hollow game, people. Hollow.