THE BAND'S FORTH LP CONFIRMS OUR LINGERING SUSPICION THAT COLDPLAY IS JUNK.
The U.K.'s pop scene is known for its erratic behavior. The face of Brit-pop never stays the same for long (the mantle once held by the Stone Roses was usurped by Blur... then Radiohead... ), and as we move further from the Beatles' demise, we are graced with a higher concentration of lesser bands, ever diluting what's good about Londoners' penchant for pop.
Coldplay arose in 1996, and the world's been hurt by each of the quartet's four releases to varying degrees. Initially, the group seemed an innocuous enough effort to rekindle music consumers' love of schlocky ballads and girl-dumps-guy love songs wrapped in keyboard chords of epic size, wavering rhythm guitar riffs of heart-wrenching proportion, and stagnant yet mildly tribal drumming. Oh, and let's not forget frontman Chris Martin's airy falsetto. At best, at least they were doing something different, and there's no reason why a new idea shouldn't be thrown in the wild.
In the twelve years since Coldplay's spawning, the band's gone through what one might call a mid-career crisis. Composing sappy jams that are more sound effect than actual pop single would take its tole on any budding songwriter, even if said artist is raking in the big bucks and selling millions of CDs as though the task were as easy as brushing one's teeth. Chart-toppers like "Yellow," "My Place," and "The Scientist" solidified Coldplay's place in U.K. music history, though: the population of broken-hearted girls and forlorn loners had found their soundtrack and someone who understood their pain. Needless to say, the product was selling like hotcakes...
Martin, who is now 31 and married to fucking Gwyneth Paltrow didn't have the stomach for such musical offerings anymore, though, and when the prospect of churning out a fourth full-length became a reality, he didn't really know what to do. This writer holds that any musician (especially those unlucky enough to be subjected to British dentistry) who is fortunate enough to woo Ms. Paltrow ought not write songs anymore, but considering that Paltrow's popping out little cherubs named Apple at an astounding rate, and by no means getting any younger, Martin's frustration with life and fear of decaying is fair. The heart-on-his-sleeve, impossibly dramatic singer resolved to create a new LP.
But how would the band be able to live up to its fanbase's expectations? How would Coldplay ever pump out a sequel to "Yellow"? How would the shoegazer Martin ever discover a way to simultaneously gain "indie cred" with the anti-Coldplay crowd and give his admirers another hour or so of sweet crooning to watered-down piano-driven instrumentals?
Team up with producer Brian Eno and write preachy songs about unreal examples of love, loss, and struggle. In short, make the established sound bigger and hopefully more awe-inspiring.
Eno, known for his ethereal, atmospheric compositions seemed the perfect match for the bummed-out Martin who was trying to unearth a crafty way of legitimizing his soothing wall-of-sound creations. Once Eno was on board, the Viva La Vida sessions became more fruitful, more bearable. The aging mad scientist of pop explicated Coldplay's sound, considering their 2008 effort a concept album of sorts. He all but removed Coldplay's once daunting and overbearing aesthetic, convinced Martin to drop the falsetto for a mellower tenor, and began injecting the tunes with hearty doses of organic rhythms, simple organ lines, and grandiose hooks.
If only Martin wasn't such a loser! Unflattering quotes aside, he's made a poor effort at uplifting his lyrics to the high-water mark of the untouchable Eno. Instead of concocting messages and morals to inform a Coldplay-hungry body of consumers, Martin primarily focused on espousing his great admiration for Eno, noting that he really made Viva La Vida into a great buy by combining two songs into one three times ("Lovers In Japan/Reign Of Love," "Yes/Chinese Sleep Chant," "Death to All His Friends/The Escapist") and wove in some hard-to-finger "X Factor" that magically freshened everything up.
Martin should've spent more time with pen and paper.
The quasi-conceptual "Viva La Vida" single, for example, tries to translate the mythology of the Crusades into a more relateable tale of passion triumphing over loneliness, solidarity, and selfishness.
I used to rule the world/ Seas would rise when I gave the word/ Now in the morning I sleep alone/ Sweep the streets I used to own/
I used to roll the dice/ Feel the fear in my enemies eyes/ Listen as the crowd would sing: "Now the old king is dead, long live the king!"
In the end, though, "Viva La Vida" resembles a thinly veiled Ode to King Martin. Here's the underscored meaning: once you achieve a certain status, you won't even think about your greatness anymore; you'll become it, making life so much more bearable.
"Lost!," on the other hand, is a more subdued tribute to our presumed savior, Martin.
Just because I'm losing/ Doesn't mean I'm lost/ Doesn't mean I'll stop/ Doesn't mean I will cross/
Just because I'm hurting/ Doesn't mean I'm hurt/ Doesn't mean I didn't get what I deserve/ No better and no worse
Again, Martin affirms that he need not worry about the challenges life may lay in his path: he's indestructible. He may be losing, but he's not really lost; he may be hurting, but he's not really hurt.
Coldplay took advantage of the world with Viva La Vida. The LP promises larger-than-life messages, neatly tied together with concise production work and warming washes of strings and liquid synths... but doesn't deliver a thing. Martin-as-Crusader in "Viva La Vida" isn't sexy—the accompanying video is an iTunes commercial, not a reenacted long walk by the sea—and he'll never reclaim that prestige, not holier-than-thou Martin. In "Violet Hill," Martin exerts his newly-exposed manliness with forceful yet mildly poetic observations and broodings on the rigors of love related to religion.
Priests clutched onto bibles Hollowed out to fit their rifles/ And the cross was held aloft/
Bury me in honor/ When I'm dead and hit the ground/ A love back home unfolds
If you love me/ Won't you let me know?
Oh, the hypocrisy of this society, this world.
Nothing about the LP is graceful... it's a deliberate attempt at exploiting the inkling of talent Coldplay had for starters, the colossal skill of Eno, and the Lemmings-like tendencies of Coldplay's diehards.
Goodbye, Coldplay. We leave you in disgust, bandaging out back stabbings. How can you be unsatisfied with life yet so obsessed with self-congratulation? How can you be so egotistical, selfish? Fortunately, we, like you, can't stand to listen to your music, either, so let's just try and forget this one. Maybe when you record your fifth full-length (fingers crossed it'll be dubbed Gweyth, an elegy to Paltrow's serenity and loving qualities), we'll give you a listen. Enjoy what you have and don't assume us to be idiots.
The heading of this piece affirms a lingering suspicion that you don't know how to spell. I do agree with you about Chris Martin, though. What a pompous jerk. I bet he was channeling poor, down-on-his-luck Mick Jagger circa I Can't Get No Satisfaction. Those rockstars should really stick to songs about how great it is to be rich and married to gorgeous women.
Amy
July 17, 2008 at 11:36 AM
Dude that's pretty harsh. Take a minute, stop, and listen. Forget the words, your past ideas, and images you have of the band and what they should have done or how you wish they had expressed themselves if it was your choice. Listen to the music and realize how beautiful and powerful it is... It's the music, not the lyrics, that carries the emotions and feeling and connects with the masses. Given the obvious inner conflict of Martin and the pressures on the band as a whole, we should just appreciate that it actually came to be, flaws included. Besides you have to aknowledge that it's superior to their previous effort of X&Y.
Logan
August 25, 2008 at 7:46 AM