When the wind picked up, the fire spread

I finally heard the new Coldplay album yesterday. Most folks I know are driven into a near apoplectic rage at the mere mention of the C word, but me and the boys go back a ways, we even have mutual friends, so I'm always willing to give them a chance.

My first contact was about 3 in the Saturday afternoon on the Glastonbury second stage. It would be a surly fucker indeed who would deny that the energy and determination with which they tore the place apart made them one of the highlights of that sunny weekend. Later that year, once Parachutes had installed itself in the collective British psyche like a harmonic ebola virus, I saw them again at their Christmas show in Shepherd's Bush which was so dull I think I left early. Their end of tour performance at V was a dreary shambolic mess and best forgotten.

Now Coldplay do have a knack for writing big stadium pop anthems, like Yellow. Unfortunately Darwin's theory of cool states that those who don't like such anthemery are genetically disposed to want to kill all those who do. And for a while all people seemed to play was Parachutes to the point where I'll gladly dynamite into oblivion the sorry lives of the next fucker who dares put it on whilst I'm within listening distance.

On the other hand, I still think Rush Of Blood's a corker. And I still love Clocks. Coldplay's Glastonbury main stage debut was on of the best headline performances I've seen on those hallowed boards, unlike their X&Y follow up which was merely good enough. The step up to the superspaciousurroundsound of number 2 probably saved them from being mid-term acoustic whingers and sewed the seeds of their own destruction all at the same time. It might have been different if X&Y hadn't been another step in the same direction and I'll freely admit with hindsight that I might have been over-kind at the time. Great show at Koko though. That's 3 good, one ok and two stinkers.

On top of all those mobile waving singalong chart toppers, there is of course, the earnestness that feels a little like they're trying too hard, which is a shame because I do think they mean it. And Chris Martin's limelight stealing fractured by self-doubt schtick does in many, hit the same emotional frequency that, as a sound makes dogs shit themselves. Although I still love the (alleged?) story that he lost his virginity to the members of female punk band, Bellatrix - Almost Famous style, back in the pub toilet days.

To some degree Viva La Vida's their most interesting effort yet. An attempt to eschew the big hits for an album that reaches into new territories whilst still maintaining a grip on the globe's MORodomes. Much of this is done through Brian Eno's Unforgettable Fire like production. Unlike the songs which veer more into How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb territory, i.e. really quite dull. It's not terrible by any means, but I have no desire to ever hear it again, bar a couple of decent tracks, none of which are as good as the new Death Cab for Cutie album which I'm listening to now.

Death Cab For Cutie's Narrow Stairs