Why are coldplay shite

By understanding a white person's feelings toward the band, you can evaluate, recognize, and eventually exploit the type of white person you are dealing with. White people who list Coldplay as their favorite band are what we will call "basic" level white. Chances are that they discovered the band a few years ago and have attended at least one concert.

Their knowledge of music is very limited, and there is a percent chance that they also like U2. They will understand. If you mention the band to a white person and that white person rolls their eyes, you are likely dealing with a "standard" level white person. The way to know for sure is to say, "I consider the band to be a guilty pleasure. Arriving at the tail end of the Britpop era, the group immediately got lumped in with a number of other moody, ballad-heavy European rock groups, such as Travis, Stereophonics, and Keane.

Unlike Oasis, Radiohead and Pulp, this new breed of band aimed straight for your heart with emotionally direct, sensitive songs that had self-pitying titles like " Why Does It Always Rain on Me? And no one has ever been as aware of this as Chris Martin. In , Rolling Stone published an interview with Martin under the headline "The Jesus of Uncool," in which he discussed the influence of Radiohead on his own band.

That type of self-awareness is one of the secrets to Coldplay's appeal: they've never wanted to be cool, and they know that you think they're not cool. Martin, in particular, is content with playing the role of the grateful nerd as romantic frontman, wearing his emotions on the sleeves of his stupid jacket. As my cheap jacket comment above proves, making fun of Coldplay is easy. If you need more proof that making Coldplay jokes is like shooting very sad fish in an eco-friendly barrel, look no further than this Family Guy clip, which finds Peter Griffin saying he got kicked out of Coldplay for suggesting they do a song "that's not whiny bullcrap.

The word "whiny" is particularly telling: if there's one thing that pisses people off about Coldplay, it's that they write about love and intimacy in a way that scans as feminine to certain rock fans. When the band first broke out, Oasis mouthpiece Noel Gallagher declared them "a bunch of fuckin' pansies, the lot of them.

You like Coldplay. In many ways The 40 Year Old Virgin putdown felt like the tipping point for the band's relationship with the rumpled-button-down, rock-loving public. Once Paul Rudd makes fun of you in a movie, it's hard to come back with that crowd.

This is the most conventional argument in favor of Coldplay: they are a solid singles band. From the syrupy sweet "Yellow," with its rain-soaked video, to the arena-rock EDM bombast of " Paradise ," the band excels at creating moments of communal pop catharsis.

These are the songs that make fans grin like an idiot and spread their arms out like they're big, dumb birds. Will Champion, the group's drummer, probably deserves a good amount of the credit for that. More than the band's Echo and the Bunnymen-esque riffs or their U2-worshipping art-rock moves, the secret to Coldplay's success lies in their nimble understanding of rhythm, particularly how simple percussion choices can shape a whole song.

Listen to the simple pitter-patter of a song like " Magic " or the thundering whoomph of " Shiver. In the process of writing this article, I went back and re-listened to the whole Coldplay discography -- yes, this is how I choose to spend my Friday nights. It turns out that that was a mistake. Those dizzying new heights were reached by taking a page out of the U2 playbook: make an art-rock record with super-producer Brian Eno.

It should've been a disaster -- the cover art of Viva La Vida looks like a parody of a self-serious rock band -- but instead these carefully modulated shifts let the band explore shoegaze, prog-rock, house music, and other new directions.

They even discovered their playful side, in their collaborating with Rihanna. Oh my God. I have fallen among Tories. So softened have I become by my decades-long marination in the hip consensus that a Jeffrey Archer is shit b Phil Collins is the root of all evil and c Margaret Thatcher is the worst thing to have happened to Britain since the Norman conquest that — finding myself among barbarians — I am defenseless, helpless, and completely unequipped to explain to these rough-hewn thickies exactly why it is their every opinion and cultural choice marks them as beyond the civilised pale.

Archer and Collins have long been thought of by us groovy types as benchmarks of shitness. So universal was this opinion that no discussion was necessary. One simply never met people who didn't think they were both utter rubbish. And so — like the origin of some ancient blood feud — the passion that fuelled the original hatred had decayed and fossilised into lazy habit and petty cliche.

Other Aunt Sallies have been hoisted up as potential replacements. For many years NME regularly gave Northside , the Inspiral Carpets and the Beautiful South brutal kickings on the assumption that they were loathed by people of taste. They were, of course, wrong. People who actually like good pop music, rather than the tired Manc indie crap you peddle, came the reply. On those music websites consumed for the most part by mildly autistic and women-hating white males which is to say all music websites there has been a concerted attempt to turn Jet and Lily Allen into red-headed step-children to be beaten and abused and locked in the cellar.

But this has failed because a both Jet and Allen rock and b a groin-clutching fear of sexuality is no way to build a consensus within a medium that prides itself on its liberalism and licentiousness. And then — just as the hip establishment despaired of ever again having a target as good as old uncle Phil — along came Coldplay and, at last, the cool massive had an Aunt Sally worthy of its scorn.

Coldplay sorted the square sheep from the groovy goats. If you hated Coldplay, you were OK. If you liked them you probably also liked leather sofas, sweet German wines, T.