You feel that? It’s the wind…on your face. See that? It’s the lights…they will guide you home.
Hear that? That’s the sound of Coldplay’s X&Y sucking a big, fat, disappointing penis. I hadn’t listened to the album for almost a year, so I gave it a second go-round this morning on the way to school. The bad weather didn’t help matters, but still, the album was just as unlistenable today as it was a year ago.
The problem with Coldplay is that they misunderstood the reason behind their vast popularity. Their understated songwriting, tasteful compositions, and Chris Martin’s general excellence positioned Coldplay among the best contemporary bands. Unfortunately, the natural comparisons to U2 and Radiohead elicited by “Parachutes” and “Rush of Blood to the Head”—two of the most memorable albums of this as-yet-unremarkable twenty-first century—fooled Coldplay into thinking that their best chance at immortality would be a reincarnation as an arena-friendly British rock band.
So they wrote 13 shallow clichés for X&Y, all identically designed: plodding, vacuously melodic verse→high-dynamic bridge→suffocating, melodramatic chorus. Somewhere in there is a too-big section with large drums, swirling guitar, and obnoxious vocals.
Chris Martin, whose voice is so can't-miss that I once got stoned and almost threw a seizure during “Politik,” completely missed by choosing to sing in a nauseating high register for an entire album. Even worse, his X&Y lyricism devolved back into apedom. Take this bit of poetry from “Fix You,” one of the songs that prompted the NY Times to dub Coldplay “the most insufferable band of the decade.”
When you try your best but you don’t succeed/
When you get what you want but not what you need/
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep/
Stuck in rever-er-er-erse/
And the tears come streaming down your face/
When you lose something you can’t replace/
When you love someone but it goes to way-aste/
Could it be wor-er-er-erse?
No, it couldn’t be worse.
I’ll conclude with two things ZJ said in Atlantic City last weekend, just to amuse myself while I Photoshop a penis into Chris Martin’s mouth:
“There’s nothing like having sex with a paraplegic youngster.”
“Smelly John ate a poon. Everybody Dance!”
Stay Self-Important, Coldplay
MC Miasmic John