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When Radiohead stepped into the brave new world of the 21st century, they had already shed their guitar-rock skin like a snake molting in reverse. The Oxford quintet's seismic shift from the arena-ready anthems of "OK Computer" to the fractured electronic landscapes of "Kid A" and "Amnesiac" left fans wondering if they'd ever witness these new compositions breathe in a live setting. Enter "I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings," a seven-song snapshot that captures the band in transition, proving that even when Radiohead strips away the studio wizardry, the magic remains devastatingly intact.

Recorded primarily during their 2001 European tour, with additional tracks from Oxford's South Park and a BBC session, this collection serves as both a love letter to the faithful and a Rosetta Stone for the unconverted. The album's genesis stems from the band's desire to document how their electronically-driven material translated to the stage – a legitimate concern given that much of their recent output seemed designed for headphones rather than arenas.

The opening salvo of "The National Anthem" immediately establishes the collection's raw power. Stripped of some studio embellishments but gaining Colin Greenwood's menacing bassline prominence, the track pulses with an urgency that the album version only hinted at. Jonny Greenwood's guitar work, freed from the constraints of programmed perfection, takes on an almost feral quality that reminds you why he's considered one of his generation's most innovative players.

"I Might Be Wrong" itself stands as the collection's crown jewel, a gorgeous meditation that benefits enormously from the live treatment. Thom Yorke's falsetto floats over Ed O'Brien's shimmering guitar work like morning mist over a lake, while Phil Selway's restrained drumming provides the perfect rhythmic foundation. It's Radiohead at their most vulnerable and human, proving that beneath all the technological experimentation beats the heart of a deeply emotional band.

The inclusion of "Morning Bell" offers a fascinating study in adaptation. Originally one of "Kid A's" most electronically manipulated tracks, here it's reimagined as something approaching a folk song, albeit one filtered through Radiohead's uniquely paranoid worldview. Yorke's vocal delivery is more conversational, more immediate, transforming what was once an abstract piece into something surprisingly intimate.

Perhaps most revelatory is "Like Spinning Plates," performed solo by Yorke at piano. Originally constructed from a backwards recording of another song, this live version strips away all pretense and reveals the gorgeous, melancholic core that was always there. It's a moment of stunning vulnerability that showcases Yorke's evolution as both a vocalist and a songwriter.

The collection's treatment of older material proves equally compelling. "Everything in Its Right Place" maintains its hypnotic power despite – or perhaps because of – its more organic presentation, while "Idioteque" loses none of its apocalyptic dread when translated through traditional rock instrumentation. These performances demonstrate the band's remarkable ability to reinvent their own work, finding new meanings in familiar melodies.

What makes "I Might Be Wrong" particularly special is its documentation of a band learning to be human again after disappearing into the digital realm. There's an immediacy and warmth to these recordings that their studio counterparts, for all their innovation, sometimes lacked. You can hear the room, feel the audience's presence, sense the electricity that comes from five musicians discovering their songs anew each night.

The album's brevity – clocking in at just under 45 minutes – works in its favor, creating a concentrated dose of live Radiohead without overstaying its welcome. It serves as both a perfect introduction for newcomers intimidated by the band's more experimental studio work and a essential document for longtime fans seeking to understand how these songs lived and breathed on stage.

Nearly two decades later, "I Might Be Wrong" stands as a crucial bridge between Radiohead's past and future, capturing a moment when the band was simultaneously looking backward and forward, grounding their most adventurous material in the fundamental power of live performance. It remains a testament to their ability to find beauty in uncertainty, to make the unfamiliar feel like home, and to prove that even in an age of infinite technological possibilities, sometimes the most profound moments happen when five people simply play music together in a room.