Everything about Coldplay is patently ridiculous: the drippy lyricism, the wide-eyed songwriting, the album art, the dippy names of singer Chris Martin’s kids, the Brian Eno jones, the daft earnestness surrounding everything it does. But when a jukebox coughs up of the quartet’s better smashes – “Paradise” say, or “Clocks,” or even “Fix You” – if you happen to be in the right mood, Coldplay will lay your emotions flat; they will ride roughshod over your preconceived notions of what “middlebow” connotes. Hate them now, but popular anthemic pop-rock could do far, far worse.

Mon., May 5, 9 p.m., 2014

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