Their rarities are the stuff of legend-hushed whispers shared between fans, files discreetly exchanged at live shows. It is this very unscriptable element that makes it so effective the best subversion in pop culture comes from the inside out.Across two decades, Radiohead have built a career on withholding. OK Computer is an unintentional pop record, one of those albums that would seem an impossible hit if you broke the components apart. What has always impressed me the most with this album is that for all the wonderfully dense layers of orchestration, non-standard time signatures, distorted/chopped/warped sounds, and mournful lyrical imagery, it has a flirtatious relationship with popular music.

Each subsequent listen offers up discoveries and a potential inspirational kick in the pants.

OK Computer was not only an incredible first listen in 1997, it has remained one of the most consistently listened to and examined albums in my collection. I may have even have kept silent on this subject for a few years, but in time I learned to comfortably admit my secret: Radiohead were a huge influence on me as a young musician and continue to be so. This put Radiohead itself in that strange universe of revered musical artifacts best left undiscussed like Pet Sounds ’ production, Leonard Cohen’s lyrics, John Bonham’s grunty isolated drums tracks, Slint’s ahead-of-their-time-ness, Fugazi’s $5 tickets, KISS’ in between song banter on YouTube, whatever it is that everyone deems so cool about the Velvet Underground, and a host of other irrefutable musical facts (note: sarcasm). It is assumed that all publicity-conscious musicians, wannabe tastemakers, and hipster-audiophiles were to understand that Radiohead’s influence was a given and therefore off the trend lines to examine. Up until recently, it felt as though musicians had been issued a strict, unspoken moratorium on talking about Radiohead. Photo by Tim Mosenfelder/Getty Images Baroness’ John Baizley

Ok computer radiohead pitchfork