Coldplay
The paradox of the execrable Coldplay is that, on paper, they should be brilliant. This is a band who declare a shared lineage with Radiohead and Jeff Buckley. They cite Echo and the Bunnymen and Kate Bush as inspiration. And yet, they are the musical equivalent of that last bit of turd that cannot be removed from one's sphincter. You know what I mean. You think you've got it all out, you pull up your pants and saunter off. Ten minutes later you start feeling sticky. That is exactly what it's like to have your otherwise perfect day interrupted by Coldplay.
And the chances of that happening are astronomically high. You're more likely to hear a Coldplay song during an average evening of TV watching than you are to get leukaemia after a decade sleeping on a bed made of uranium.
A triumph against adversity montage at the end of ER, Law and Order or CSI: Miwaukee - The tedious thud of Clocks comes on.
A scene in which estranged lovers unite over shared misfortune - Fix You blares out as the tears fall.
It's as welcome as finding a used, crap encrusted Trojan in your girlfriend's bed - when you only use Durex.
You simply cannot escape the fuckers. The problem is, while the producers of these dramas are attempting to twang and tweak my heartstrings with their soundtrack choice - they only succeed in, to use a term from narrative theory, "waking the dreamer". Here's how it goes: narrative fiction is like a dream. You go along with it. Suspend your disbelief. You put up with just about any crap in the name of being entertained. Unless it means putting up with Coldplay.
Until Clocks kicked in, I was probably on the side of the character facing jail time for stealing food to feed his children. Now I want to see him fry in the chair until he looks like jerky, the dirty thief. And "Fix You" just makes me want Dr. House to switch off the little girl's life support machine. Two minutes ago I was rooting for her. Now I want to see her die screaming, with oxygenated bile bubbling from every orifice. In short, TV producers - you've failed. You've fucked up. And it's all Coldplay's fault.
Why doesn't the same thing happen when the choice is more eclectic? When Brian Eno or Nick Drake tunes soundtrack the sad montage moment? My considered opinion is that Eno and Drake were artists of integrity and emotion. Coldplay are just a bunch of maudlin, talentless pricks who have just been very, very fucking lucky.
I mean - Clocks is just three chords. Three fucking arpeggios played in descending progression. For five full minutes. There's not a single change there at all. It starts, it goes on for five minutes, it vomits in my head and makes me want to punch Chris Martin in the cock until the resulting mess looks like a melted strawberry ice-cream - and then it ends. What a cunt.
And, really, that brings us to the crux of it. Coldplay isn't really Coldplay - the band. It's Chris Martin - the annoying new age hippy twat. Even U2 - from whom Coldplay have stolen so many of their tunes, posturing and sonic textures - even they have recognisable members. There's Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and the drumming guy. Coldplay? There's Chris Martin... and, um, the bulldog looking one. Then there are band members 3 and 4. I think those are their actual names.
So, when I say Coldplay are the shit on a stick when what you wanted was a tasty corn-dog, what I really mean is that Chris Martin is that shit. And that Chris Martin is a shit.
Have you ever heard him being interviewed? As a talk show guest, he makes Lou Reed sound like Tom Hanks. When promoting the last CD - you know, the one no one bought - he famously walked out of a radio studio saying that he wasn't "really enjoying this" because the interviewer was asking him probing, cutting questions like "what are your influences?" and "would you call this your best work?". Well, Chris, now you know how it feels for most people to have to listen to your music. You cunt.
Truth be told, this misunderstood genius bullshit is a little disingenuous coming from a man who wrote a song where every second line is "It was all yellow".
The real problem, for Coldplay, is that Coldplay are indie-lite. They are the diet version of alternative rock. But they don't know it. So, while we hear Coldplay and think of Travis and Keane and a bunch of other mediocre, tearful bed-wetters, Chris Martin hears Neil Young, The Flaming Lips and Radiohead. People who take chances. Smart people. Real musicians.
HA HA! HA HA HA! Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha!
And that's where Coldplay fuck up. If they just accepted that they were a moderately talented, not very smart guitar band that makes musical wallpaper for 40 year old yuppies to swap keys to before they pair off and have missionary position sex in red brick suburbia - they'd be fine. But they don't get that. They think they can do good work, contribute to the betterment of our musical heritage. They think they can "make a difference".
And they can make a difference. They can fuck off.
And the chances of that happening are astronomically high. You're more likely to hear a Coldplay song during an average evening of TV watching than you are to get leukaemia after a decade sleeping on a bed made of uranium.
A triumph against adversity montage at the end of ER, Law and Order or CSI: Miwaukee - The tedious thud of Clocks comes on.
A scene in which estranged lovers unite over shared misfortune - Fix You blares out as the tears fall.
It's as welcome as finding a used, crap encrusted Trojan in your girlfriend's bed - when you only use Durex.
You simply cannot escape the fuckers. The problem is, while the producers of these dramas are attempting to twang and tweak my heartstrings with their soundtrack choice - they only succeed in, to use a term from narrative theory, "waking the dreamer". Here's how it goes: narrative fiction is like a dream. You go along with it. Suspend your disbelief. You put up with just about any crap in the name of being entertained. Unless it means putting up with Coldplay.
Until Clocks kicked in, I was probably on the side of the character facing jail time for stealing food to feed his children. Now I want to see him fry in the chair until he looks like jerky, the dirty thief. And "Fix You" just makes me want Dr. House to switch off the little girl's life support machine. Two minutes ago I was rooting for her. Now I want to see her die screaming, with oxygenated bile bubbling from every orifice. In short, TV producers - you've failed. You've fucked up. And it's all Coldplay's fault.
Why doesn't the same thing happen when the choice is more eclectic? When Brian Eno or Nick Drake tunes soundtrack the sad montage moment? My considered opinion is that Eno and Drake were artists of integrity and emotion. Coldplay are just a bunch of maudlin, talentless pricks who have just been very, very fucking lucky.
I mean - Clocks is just three chords. Three fucking arpeggios played in descending progression. For five full minutes. There's not a single change there at all. It starts, it goes on for five minutes, it vomits in my head and makes me want to punch Chris Martin in the cock until the resulting mess looks like a melted strawberry ice-cream - and then it ends. What a cunt.
And, really, that brings us to the crux of it. Coldplay isn't really Coldplay - the band. It's Chris Martin - the annoying new age hippy twat. Even U2 - from whom Coldplay have stolen so many of their tunes, posturing and sonic textures - even they have recognisable members. There's Bono, The Edge, Adam Clayton and the drumming guy. Coldplay? There's Chris Martin... and, um, the bulldog looking one. Then there are band members 3 and 4. I think those are their actual names.
So, when I say Coldplay are the shit on a stick when what you wanted was a tasty corn-dog, what I really mean is that Chris Martin is that shit. And that Chris Martin is a shit.
Have you ever heard him being interviewed? As a talk show guest, he makes Lou Reed sound like Tom Hanks. When promoting the last CD - you know, the one no one bought - he famously walked out of a radio studio saying that he wasn't "really enjoying this" because the interviewer was asking him probing, cutting questions like "what are your influences?" and "would you call this your best work?". Well, Chris, now you know how it feels for most people to have to listen to your music. You cunt.
Truth be told, this misunderstood genius bullshit is a little disingenuous coming from a man who wrote a song where every second line is "It was all yellow".
The real problem, for Coldplay, is that Coldplay are indie-lite. They are the diet version of alternative rock. But they don't know it. So, while we hear Coldplay and think of Travis and Keane and a bunch of other mediocre, tearful bed-wetters, Chris Martin hears Neil Young, The Flaming Lips and Radiohead. People who take chances. Smart people. Real musicians.
HA HA! HA HA HA! Ha ha ha ha ha. Ha!
And that's where Coldplay fuck up. If they just accepted that they were a moderately talented, not very smart guitar band that makes musical wallpaper for 40 year old yuppies to swap keys to before they pair off and have missionary position sex in red brick suburbia - they'd be fine. But they don't get that. They think they can do good work, contribute to the betterment of our musical heritage. They think they can "make a difference".
And they can make a difference. They can fuck off.