Sasha Frere Jones’s excellent article about Coldplay published in the New Yorker (“La Vida No Loca: Coldplay’s expanding gas.”) vindicates my belief that Coldplay is a horrifically mediocre band. Their success defies explanation—until I remember that the median tastes of most people puts them squarely at average. Which is exactly what they are. Average.
(OK, a few years ago Chuck Klosterman said that “Coldplay is absolutely the shittiest fucking band I’ve ever heard in my entire fucking life.” Then again, in classic transference befitting a neurotic like Klosterman, he blames them for not getting laid.)
However, Jones is in another league of music criticism altogether, and his review of Coldplay’s latest puts the bands “legacy” into perspective. It’s one of pretentious lyricism and vapid, empty pop that has successfully insinuated itself into our collective iPod brain, fooling us into believing whatever Coldplay does to be so significant.
Mark my words: in less than a decade, Chris Martin will be scoring pretentious Broadway musicals about global warming. Or (God help us), publishing a book of poems extolling the righteousness of 21st-century veganism. And he will make money hand over fist doing it…