UNTIL last month, Radiohead had spent their career in Siberia, hipness-wise. It was hardly their fault that Jason Donovan had declared "The Radioheads" his favourite new group, but the damage was done. Suddenly, though, the Oxford quintet are being feted by people formerly unmoved by their neurotic pop. The reason - their new album, The Bends, a meisterwerk of self-loathing couched in epic arena-rock.

First, though, the 'Heads were preceded onstage by Marion - the future of British rock, part 436. They managed some nicely overwrought moments, but the singer ruined it by playing that least fanciable of instruments, the harmonica. By contrast, Radiohead were overwrought during their entire set. The two guitarists contributed globs of ringing power chords but singer Thom Yorke was Anxiety Central. A tiny gremlin figure, he shouted, pleaded, and once emitted a hair-raising scream. The much-evoked comparisons to U2 were valid, except that Yorke is no inspirational Bono. He's a self-described "nothing" who hasn't "any real friends". His flailing was fascinating, but disturbing to witness. Let's hope he is in therapy.

Like other pop outsiders, Yorke attracts an empathetic audience. The Forum crowd meaningfully sang the chorus to Radiohead's 1993 hit, Creep: "I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo . . ." The self-doubt Yorke radiates is the key to Radiohead's allure. The dynamics of the music are suited to a stadium, but Yorke is the type who would faint in front of 20,000 people. He seemed on the verge of hyperventilating even here, as they swung into My Iron Lung.

Offstage, no doubt, Radiohead are the life of the party. Onstage? Pretty creepy, just as Thom insists.