If you can’t love Coldplay, at least hate them for the right reasons

If you can’t love Coldplay, at least hate them for the right reasons

Coldplay return this month. A void will be filled in us all. For some – those who have James Blunt-bashed their way through the last 2 Chris Martin-less years – the release of the band’s fourth studio album, ‘Viva La Vida Or Death & All His Friends’, will provide fresh forum fodder of the most scathing kind. The negative slur of “Coldplay fan” will counter playground heckles of “ya mum” and feature in as many road-rage tantrums. For others, the familiar, modest bumblings of Chris Martin and Co. will be excitably welcomed as they once again carry with them the most successful British band of the millennium. Without shame, the latter sums up our feelings on the matter.

It’s of course not right, an independent new music magazine fawning over soft-rock stadium balladeers, but there’s something undeniable about the music of Coldplay; from the eloquently gushing ‘Yellow’ lyric of “For you I bleed myself dry” to the openly optimistic and stratosphere bound ‘Square One’. And yet many can’t entertain the idea that perhaps the Brit Awards and worldwide record sales of 30 million are rightfully this band’s.

I, like every music fan, am of course a hypocrite. I’m the first to call Bono a wig-wearing tit, Sting a bendy, tantric arse and Rod Stewart, quite simply, the devil, always putting down any music created by any of the above, purely on my feelings toward them as celebrities, smug ambassadors or any other part of their personalities that allow me to prolong applauding their actual craft. But now, as I find myself once again defending Coldplay to friends, arguing “Okay, but look past the curly hair and charity drives you look at so cynically and you can’t deny that Coldplay write some quite brilliant songs”, I’m trying to look at ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ more objectively. Because therein lies the obstacle that confronts any successful band.

More often than not the personalities of band members (and front-men in particular) make up our minds about their music before we’ve even dropped the needle on the groove. And it applies to Coldplay as much as U2, The Police and music by the devil. On top of the fact that record sales increase at the same rate that kind words diminish (if there’s one thing us Brits hate more than our nation being bad at something it’s us excelling at it), and the fact that they’re ‘that posh band from the home counties’ (seemingly, even the wealthy dislike the wealthy these days), Coldplay are lead by the pseudo Saint Bob figure of Chris Martin: a nice, polite boy with manners who fancies trying to save Africa when he’s not being in his band. How. Dare. He?!

But as a self-confessed Coldplay fan I’ll not try to persuade you that Martin is, as I hope, a genuine character – after all, I’ve never met him and thus have no inkling to how true that is, plus not even a rant from Bono’s mum could change my mind that a man who insists on being called Bono is not to be trusted. However, surely we can appreciate those in the mainstream that truly deserve to be there without having to love or even like them? I promise to give it a go with my aforementioned demons if you do with yours. Seeing any good in Simply Red however, you can fuck right off

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