Radiohead's epochal third album arrived like a transmission from a dystopian future that turned out to be next Tuesday. Recorded in a Georgian mansion with producer Nigel Godrich, these twelve tracks bottled millennial dread before Y2K panic made it fashionable.

Thom Yorke's android paranoia and Jonny Greenwood's ondes Martenot spirals rejected grunge's spent cartridge for something more unsettling: art rock with actual anxiety, electronic textures serving the songs rather than gilding them. The sound of ambition meeting execution at precisely the right cultural moment, when guitar music still mattered enough to challenge its own limitations.