Coldplay
Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends

THE REVIEW

I walk into a record store like any other on a dull day like any other, perfectly convinced that my sovereign aesthetic taste and my keen critical spirit can never be undermined by any individual/inanimate being that may present itself before me. The criteria that pompously support my musical inclinations are rock-solid, I think, as I look at the new Coldplay album. And suddenly my brain is illuminated by a chilling image: Coldplay, a ridiculously pretentious and fake band, nauseatingly sycophantic, implausibly hollow and populist. They play what the "people" want to hear, hungry for tear-jerking melodies and G major progressions. One of the worst things England has produced, musically speaking, since the sad days of Sporty Spice and Take That.

But magically a greater force, in an evident state of hypnotic trance, compels me to extend my little hand towards that horrid object. I return home, and with a goofy smile and a trickle of drool on my chin, I put the CD in the player, and the amazement is great. Very great. It's as if the sky turned green, the stars went out, Juventus became stronger than Milan, Gigi d'Alessio sang at next year's Glastonbury. The world upside down. What I hear I like, I like Coldplay. In fact, I like this band that has nothing to do with that tacky counterfeit they sold (even poorly) as the best band of the millennium (1000 years).

Among the ten tracks of the album (with three hidden tracks), the quality is maintained: nothing exceptionally indispensable, but everything absolutely valid. There's "Violet Hill" that puts some damn rock into those languid homoerotic sweeps, accompanied by a voice that finally frees itself from that unbearable sugary sweetness. It seems to come from the pen of a Christmas Gallagher. There's "42" that shows how Radiohead replace the pretentious U2 in influences: piano opening - electric guitar riffs - Beatles-like variation - circular return to the beginning. There's "Yes" that even presents (middle) eastern ascents of exquisite refinement. There's "Lost" which is a crappy song but dismembered into its individual units and recomposed with style and originality. In short, there's a minimum of courage, experimental boldness, positive innovation. An album that shows its scrotum (to put it scientifically), that raises the level by a notch, that allows us to call "music" what Chris and his friends had only strummed and grunted (vomitously).

Maybe it's a door to a brilliant and unstoppable evolution. Maybe it's just a jolt of pride for those who wade in a sea of paucity and steaming banality. But it's already something, and it is our peremptory duty to recognize and appreciate it. From tomorrow, they may return to writing background music for heavy makeouts in cars, but this time they've churned out a damn convincing album.