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
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on April 30, 2014