IN THE least expected turnabout this decade, Radiohead have transformed themselves from nondescript guitar-beaters to potential arena-fillers a la U2. Like the latter, Radiohead accentuate the bond between vocalist and domineering guitarist(s), but here it feels disturbingly claustrophobic. Waifish Thom Yorke - who inadvertently sounds like Bono on The Bends' many high notes - seems near collapse on more than a few tracks, with the mood heightened by Ed O'Brien's and Jon Greenwood's nightmarish, swirling guitars. O'Brien makes lavish use of pedals and effects that enlarge the sound (to exceptional merit on Planet Telex) and create a sense of doom on slowies such as Fake Plastic Trees. The grandeur may eventually pall, as it has with U2, but it's been years since big, bumptious rock sounded this emotional.