Thom Yorke: “Why I’m Not Afraid of Death at 56”
“I’ve lived an extraordinary life,” Thom Yorke says, sitting quietly with a gentle smile, eyes fixed somewhere distant. “There’s been loss, yes. There’s been wild success. I’ve had moments of despair and moments of joy so intense, it’s hard to describe. But at some point, you realize it’s not about chasing legacy—it’s about being present. And the most important thing is having, and knowing fully well that… you were here. You felt it.”
At 56, the Radiohead frontman speaks with the calm of someone who has faced down the chaos and come out the other side, quieter but not diminished. Over the last three decades, Yorke has been the voice of a generation’s alienation, anxiety, and quiet hope, delivering some of modern music’s most haunting, transcendent moments. But these days, he’s less interested in what comes next and more focused on what is.
Yorke’s reflections on mortality come at a time when many artists his age are obsessed with cementing their legacies. Not him.
“People want to be remembered. It’s a human thing,” he says. “But the funny thing is, when you die, you’re not around to enjoy it. So what’s the point? I’ve started asking myself instead: Did I live well? Did I love deeply? Did I say what I needed to say? That’s what I care about now.”
His sense of peace hasn’t come easily. Over the years, Yorke has navigated grief, including the loss of his longtime partner Rachel Owen in 2016, as well as ongoing climate anxiety and the personal pressures of global fame. He’s spoken openly about his struggles with depression and disconnection, especially during Radiohead’s early years.
“I spent a lot of time afraid—of failing, of disappointing people, of the world falling apart. And it still might,” he says, half-smiling. “But fear eats you alive. There’s a point where you either surrender to it, or you find something bigger.”
For Yorke, that “something bigger” is presence, love, and the stillness he’s discovered through music, fatherhood, and time.
“Playing music… it’s the closest I come to feeling immortal, but not in the legacy way. I mean in the moment,” he says. “When you’re onstage, when the sound is right, when you’re completely in sync with your bandmates, it’s like time disappears. You don’t worry about before or after. You are. That’s the gift.”
He credits this clarity to years of creative exploration beyond Radiohead—solo albums, Atoms for Peace, The Smile, and film scores that pushed him into new sonic territory. But it’s not just artistic fulfillment that’s grounding him—it’s life itself.
“Having kids changed everything,” he says. “You realize you’re not the center of the universe. You see time in a new way. There’s beauty in watching someone grow, in passing something on, even if it’s just a way of seeing the world.”
Yorke is the first to admit he doesn’t have all the answers. He still wrestles with anxiety, still gets lost in thought, still has moments where he wonders what it all means. But unlike his younger self—fraught with existential dread—he’s found some form of balance.
“I’m not afraid of death because I know I’ve lived,” he says simply. “Not perfectly, not always gracefully, but honestly.”
Asked if he believes in an afterlife, Yorke pauses. “I don’t know. Maybe we return to something. Maybe we don’t. I’m okay with not knowing. I think the real mystery is here—in the fact that we’re alive at all.”
As the conversation winds down, he glances out the window, where the sky is turning a soft gray, rain just beginning to fall.
“We’re all going to die,” he says, not with fear but with reverence. “But if you’ve loved, if you’ve made something beautiful, if you’ve stood in the rain and felt it—really felt it—then maybe that’s enough.”
Thom Yorke isn’t done living yet. But he’s no longer afraid of the end. After all, as he says with a quiet laugh, “The trick was never to avoid death. The trick was to be alive while you were here.”
