No Hype to Not Believe

Just as the Internet has arrived to bring nations together in one big e-mailed chorus of "It's a Small World After All," the American record biz has entrenched itself in a phase of Brit-phobia more severe than in any other pop period since the one before the Beatles came over to snap us out of post-JFK-assassination depression. While Sweden pens pop ditties more mellifluous than our own and fluke Eurodance hits keep flying out of Denmark and Italy, England's still-mighty electronica and indie scenes routinely hit a Yank wall of UNI/WEA/BMG/EMI resistance. It was prerelease Internet buzz that catapulted Radiohead to instant number one, not Total Request Live, not test-market-research radio. Why look for the next big aesthetic when we can keep on backin' up that billion-dollar boyband bizkit industry?

Yet even as we snub art-house Brit rockers and bliss-crazed clubbers, the Internet lets us keep closer tabs than ever on what remains the world's trendiest pop scene—a country where the singles chart is overtaken by new records every week and the album chart by bands known only to their mothers a few months ago.

We look to Carson Daly to tell us what to buy, while in England, the music press still calls the shots, building 'em up and knocking 'em down with an authority both hilarious and enviable. While we were just getting a taste of that year-old Travis album—the most accessible English rock record since Oasis cloned all accessible English rock records before them—the newbies in Coldplay topped the U.K. album chart upon release last July of their Travis-y debut, Parachutes, which finally reaches American shores this week. You could anticipate the backlash brewing in NME's review: "The criticism most often leveled at Coldplay (certainly round these parts) is that they will never be the saviors of rock'n'roll. They will never cause front-page tabloid sensation and they really like their parents."

Humbly drawn Damon Gough, airing (and maybe wearing) his dirty laundry
photo: Derrik Santini
Humbly drawn Damon Gough, airing (and maybe wearing) his dirty laundry


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Such sweetness is tantamount to sellout in a country continuously pining for the next Sex Pistols to come along and piss on the queen, so although reviews were uniformly favorable, the loo doo-doo hit the fan when the band found itself the instant 3-to-1 bookie favorite to win England's critic-determined Mercury Prize. Alan McGee, head of the newly dissolved Creation label that all Brit-crits worshiped, whined that his veteran band Primal Scream didn't get a nomination "because they don't suck corporate cock," and declared Coldplay "bed wetter's music." Despite guitarist Jon Buckland's firm denial ("I've never wet the bed. I once did a poo under the table when I was three, but that's about it"), Coldplay and their guitar-band allies, Doves, lost to multi-instrumentalist singer-songwriter Badly Drawn Boy.

These three acts face off for Best New Band and Album of the Year status at the Q Awards, the next English-press-fueled contest. Unlike the Mercury nominations, which do try to reflect the scope of British music, the Q's solely reflect its sponsor. Q magazine focuses on the commercial end of Anglo art-rock, which, in the wake of Brit-pop's decline, nearly all sounds like Radiohead. It's easy for us to be condescending about this—unless we cop to the reality that most of our big rock acts offer similarly slight variations on Rage, Pearl Jam, Green Day, and Hootie, none of them exactly a hotbed of innovation or variation. Call me an Anglophile, but given the choice between bands modeled after oddballs who went way out on their recent ultraconfrontational Saturday Night Live appearance and bands cloned from the genes of the doofus who scaled the scaffolding during the MTV Music Awards, I'll take the bed wetters any day.

Like Radiohead, Coldplay, Doves, and Badly Drawn Boy employ predigital instrumentation, then mess with it as a dance music producer would—not to push the groove higher, but to reflect their souls' unease and struggle for release. Their proximity to European club culture is akin to the hip-hop effect on American bands. We wanna get paid, represent, and chill. They aim to re-create those Ecstasy-addled peaks of emotional clarity and openness.

Manchester's Doves began as Sub Sub, a house act who scored a diva-driven, M People-ish smash called "Ain't No Love (Ain't No Use)" in 1993, then went back underground until a studio fire jarred the trio into dubby guitar melancholia. Fellow Mancunian Damon Gough, a/k/a Badly Drawn Boy, like the bedroom DJs he resembles, creates home-recorded, self-overdubbed arrangements with a little help from his Doves pals. Coldplay lean closer to classic rock, but value otherworldly melody as highly as any European trance DJ.

It's easy to bully twee Coldplay leader Chris Martin, who obviously spent a few private moments alone with Jeff Buckley's quivering tenor. "Shiver" sports all the Buckley trademarks—rollicking 6/8 time scheme, swoony falsetto swoops, dual-guitar interplay that alternates chiming verses with charging choruses, shadowy poetry reveling in romantic submission. Quieter tracks like "Sparks" come closer to what makes Travis pleasant background pop. A plunking bassline broods under a swirl of acoustic strums, jazz piano, twinkling vibraphone, and understated crooning. There's little on Parachutes that demands attention or punctures the pensive spell, and, unlike Travis's, Coldplay's hooks are slight. These indistinct London lads might as well be Canadian (and they are, indeed, signed in North America to Canada's Nettwerk, label home of kindred spirit Sarah McLachlan).

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