Coldplay - X&Y (2005)

In 1978, in order to fulfill contractual obligations, Emerson, Lake and Palmer released Love Beach, a most heinous and disgusting example of musicianship. AC/DC's Fly On The Wall in 1985 didn't exactly inspire throngs of supporters, either. Even the mighty Sabbath released the less-than-mediocre Never Say Die! in 1978 as the swan song of Mr. Osbourne. Yet, time has since forgiven these indiscretions, these blasé and lax attempts by otherwise fantastic musicians. Some if this has to do with lowered expectations: ELP was some years off its Brain Salad Surgery glory days; Sabbath had already began to show a slight decline in quality; and AC/DC had already released its post-Back In Black letdown several years earlier.

With that, let me now begin with Coldplay's 2005 dirty bomb X&Y, our newly crowned perennial stinker. If Coldplay were a prostitute, this album is perhaps the equivalent of their having come back to gobble up the sloppy seconds. Factor in the fact that A Rush Of Blood To The Head was easily the equivalent of them breaking their proverbial hymen, and such antics make this all the more messier and bloodier an album. First off, what's there to review, since this album sounds oddly the same, no matter what track you're listening to? This is perfectly squandered drool, better left on your pillow than in your ear, which is precisely where Mr. Martin puts it. A wonder a man with so much passion for global politics and free trade could actually write something so insipid and crass and manage to still sell it -- which is, of course, what separates this album from the aforementioned others: its remarkable thrust into the limelight as the album of the ages and subsequent stepping stone for Coldplay to become the next U2. Ahem. Bono has great vocal range and chops; Chris Martin, at best, is able to project a nasally tinny of a falsetto, a more or less cheap imitation of his hero Thom Yorke. If Coldplay is now considered big, it's the big in the sense of a vacuum, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Millions of sold records does not a great album make; and this album is arguably one of the worst albums ever made, marketed and sold. Unfortunately for us, we'll probably never forget about it. A big fat F encrusted in platinum.