![]() ![]() In his hand is an iPhone with a sticker on the back that sums up his response to nearly every conceivable query: “Fuck what you heard.” ![]() He orders an English breakfast tea, and later an espresso. Little Dom’s is one of his favorite spots – he was here the night before for dinner – but now it’s midafternoon, and the restaurant has opened early just for him. ![]() His long hair is pulled back into a tiny, tight bun he has a stylish gray beard. Now, he dances onstage and DJ’s in clubs.Īt the moment, he’s sitting in Little Dom’s Italian restaurant in the Los Feliz neighborhood of his adopted hometown of Los Angeles, wearing a bleached denim jacket with the collar popped up, a thin white T-shirt and what appear to be leather pants. Radiohead‘s frontman, who turned 48 in October, is long past his days of hiding in tour buses and venting pain and fear into spiral notebooks. “Lighten the fuck up,” Yorke says, laughing hard. Thom Yorke has four words of blunt advice for his younger, twitchier self, that paranoid twentysomething humanoid who made his band’s turn-of-the-millennium masterpieces. ![]()
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