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| As with most things I do, reviewing this, the third and most feverishly anticipated album from Coldplay, seems something of a futile exercise. |
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The bloody thing’s been knocking around for over a month now: this severe delay in review-response time clearly represents a rare lapse in service which can be accounted for by (a) the corporate paranoia with which EMI protected pre-release promotional copies (which is fair enough: if my multi-gazillion-dollar enterprise rested on the bony shoulders of a feckless hippy like Chris Martin, I’d be jittery too); and (b) the fact it’s taken me about two weeks to get round to writing this. Accordingly, anybody with the slightest interest in this record will undoubtedly have already listened to it; read several balanced, lucid reviews; formed their own opinions; and need me sticking my grubby oar in at this point like they need a hole in the head. Here goes!
X&Y is split into two halves, "X" and "Y". As both sound pretty similar, I don’t quite grasp the significance of the exercise – doubtless it’s very high-concept, and probably has something to do with alleviating third-world debt or snogging Gwyneth Paltrow. "X" kicks off in disturbing fashion with the horrifically overblown opener ‘Square One’, which sounds like Coldplay trying to "do" Radiohead but which in places is closer to Dire Straits. As if to reassure fans that this doesn’t represent a move into new, unfamiliar territory, it’s followed by ‘What If’, which is more recognisably traditional Coldplay piano-and-vocal fare, peppered with thought-provoking rhyming couplets along the lines of "What if there was no light/Nothing wrong, nothing right?" What if indeed.
It’s around this point in proceedings that I started repeatedly jamming myself in the eye with a biro, in an unsuccessful bid to divert my attention from the unremitting horror of it all. But it gets worse. Single ‘Speed of Sound’ sounds like it could have been commissioned specifically for the opening sequence of the Hollyoaks Sunday omnibus, or perhaps a stirring montage sequence in Big Brother. The predictably tedious music is underscored by banal, cliché-ridden lyrics: ‘Swallowed in the Sea’ opens with the lines "You cut me down a tree/And brought it back to me/And that’s what made me see/Where I was going wrong." What in the name of buggery is that supposed to mean? ‘Fix You’, meanwhile, finds Mr Martin that "lights will guide you home" (oh, for goodness’ sake), before going on to pilfer the song’s central refrain from the mighty Kenickie.
And so it goes on, for one hour, two minutes and thirty-five bastard seconds; until proceedings come to a halt with ‘Til Kingdom Come’, a stripped-down, acoustic-guitar-led track which reminds the listener of Johnny Cash, and specifically his song ‘The Man Comes Around’ from the album of the same name. Initially, I found myself surprised and disorientated by this gear-change so late in the proceedings, and begrudgingly conceding that X&Y contains at least one good song after all: until, that is, I discovered Coldplay had actually written it for Mr Cash, who sensibly died before having a chance to record it, whereupon any nascent respect I may have been harbouring for this band went right out the window, to be replaced by amazement at their sheer nerve (it’s so close to ‘The Man…’ in terms of style, theme and imagery it’s virtually a pastiche).
I’m sure worse records than this will be released this year: but they won’t be as ubiquitous as this one. For the next twelve months or so, you won’t be able to switch on the radio or TV, go for a drink, go round to a friend’s flat, get a haircut or buy a pair of socks without being forced to listen to this frigging album. May the Lord have mercy on us all.
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| Mat Beal - 0/10 |
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