Review: Coldplay - Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends (2008)

A wise man once said: "Opinions are like assholes..." Because they stink? Because everyone has one? Maybe both, but either way it's true. And never has it been more true than when those opinions pertain to one of the most polarizing bands around, Coldplay.

Ask anyone between the ages of 10 and 30, and they undoubtedly have some feelings on the subject. "I don't love them, but their early stuff was OK," or "I think Chris Martin is a pansy who sings about his feelings too much," or "I think Coldplay is great because they're like Radiohead without scaring me" are all common responses, though I agree with none of them.

For almost a year, Coldplay has been touting their fourth album, Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends, aka - Viva la Vida, as a major "change in direction" from their earlier work. Though the claim has been pretentiously contested by the underground media (see: Pitchfork's bitter review), it seems futile to argue with the band's own motivations. Who are we to argue with Chris Martin when he says the album is a departure? Rolling Stone superficially noted the album's "darker" and "more interesting" nature (whatever that means), and I have to agree more with our mainstream friends at RS. Amidst all their name-dropping and hyper-critical-mainstream-hating, Pitchfork has forgotten one important thing: the album is different from anything Coldplay has done before. They aren't claiming to have invented a new genre or even pushing an envelope. Simply put, Coldplay set out to follow up 2005's X&Y with something that would sound vastly different from its predecessors. And, in the best possible way, they did it beautifully.

Like Radiohead's In Rainbows, Viva la Vida blends electronics and high production quality with minimalist ideals, which is impressive coming from a band that had previously shown movement in the opposite direction. The crowdedness of X&Y and A Rush of Blood to the Head is a thing of the past, and it has been replaced with dissonance ("42"), unusual percussion ("Violet Hill"), and unique instrumentation ("Yes/Chinese Sleep Chant"). Martin has admittedly opted to take it easy on the falsetto this time around, a humble shift for a man who clearly enjoys pushing his voice as high as it can go, and the change works greatly to the band's advantage that the illustrious singer's lower register lends itself well to the smoother, finely crafted songs on Viva la Vida.

More subtly, though, Coldplay has parted ways with the structures that held them back in the past. No more are the ABABCBs (most notably "Yellow" and "Clocks"), but instead lengthy epics that flow nicely into one another. Co-title track "Death and All His Friends" starts as a piano ballad, but at about 2:00 it elevates to trademark Coldplay piano-guitar matchups (in 7/8 time, no less), climaxes as 3:30, and electronically outros with a reprise of the album's intro, "Life in Technicolor." If the album were on repeat, it would be completely unclear where it ends and where it begins, and this is just the sort of thing that is so different and progressive when compared to the trilogy of popfests that constituted Coldplay's first three albums.

Not every song is a revolution in Coldplay's musicmaking career, but they all work so well together it's hard to believe that Viva la Vida isn't a concept album. For example, "Lovers in Japan/Reign of Love" is a weak point because, while it sticks to the unstructured-epic criteria (soaring rock tune turns piano ballad), the next track is the instrumentally exciting (but vocally boring) "Yes/Chinese Sleep Chant," which wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable without a more X&Yish Coldplay song to lead into it.

What Coldplay has admirably done is to ensure the comfort and security of a pop-driven fanbase, while at the same time venturing into new territory. It's not so far "out there" as to alienate anyone, but it is enough of the intended departure to win over some of the naysaying skeptics that inevitably doubt anything that sells more than 100 copies upon its independent release.

I've been on the bandwagon since Parachutes, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I don't know who first compared Coldplay to Radiohead and U2 -- as if the two are themselves similar in any way -- and made the decision that we're only allowed to like one or the other, but I implore everyone who has written Coldplay off to listen to Viva la Vida and give them the chance that they changed for. As Martin sings in "Death and All His Friends," Coldplay has long dreamed of making an escape from the pigeonhole that they have been stuck in for almost a decade. Now that they've moved past their self-termed Trilogy, and in truly grand fashion, we should all do the same.

The Band That Time Forgot

The Eagles, AKA - The Band that Time Forgot, took the stage at Madison Square Garden on Wednesday night, poised in their "Men in Black" outfits (a la Johnny Cash...or Tommy Lee Jones), geriatric as ever, and proceeded to rock like it was 1980…before the “fourteen year vacation.”

All four "official" members were playing the guitar. Don Henley stood front and center, as calm and imposing as any Tarantino character. He was flanked by co-leader Glen Frey, bassist Timothy Schmit, and Joe Walsh, who is as silly and immature as any Sandler character (as a performer, not a guitarist). There was also another guitarist (the show-stealingly good Stuart Smith) and a drummer (when Henley wasn't pulling double duty on the mic and the kit). And two keyboardists. And a piano player. And everyone had a microphone! It was completely over the top (in a good way…most of the time). Nine musicians to play classic rock 'n roll?! With the occasional horn section (fronted by the surprisingly stellar sax/violin/keyboard/percussion player Al Garth), it took THIRTEEN MUSICIANS to play "Hotel California!" Admittedly, the players were all impeccable and served their roles well, so any excessiveness was redeemed by talent. The timeless quality of both the songs and the band were delivered well to the capacity crowd.

Coming off The Long Road Out of Eden, their first complete studio release in almost three decades (1994's essential Hell Freezes Over was mostly recorded live), the band looked rejuvenated despite the fact that not one of the founding members will be under 60 years old by the end of this tour. And they were really having a good time. Sure, they've played these same hits thousands of times. But somehow they are able to keep their energy level high for over three hours of classics. Timothy Schmit looks like a mysterious and wise sage with his elbow-length hair, and his slow ballads lent themselves well to Frey's country-rock, Henley's pop-rock, and Walsh's gritty, guitar-driven, straight ahead rock.

The drug-aged Walsh was as silly as ever, constantly joking with the crowd and the band, but his social confidence was not reflected through his weakening vocals. In his anthem, "Life's Been Good," or virtually any other song he was singing, Walsh literally backed away from the highest notes, needing the other eight band members on stage to pick up his slack. Luckily, his out of control guitar licks were the focal point of the spotlight, and he is an improved version of the guitarist he was forty years ago.

Similarly, when Henley wasn't playing the guitar and singing (which he still does as effortlessly and beautifully as ever), he was either drumming and singing or pretending to play percussion and sing. I was a little embarrassed for him up there, robotically and artlessly flailing his arms from conga to conga, but he more than made up for it with his time behind the kit (where he belongs) and with the guitar.

What really impressed me and stood out, though, were the four(or more)-part harmonies. Frey, Henley, Schmit, and Walsh have a Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young-esque ability to always be on key, always stay within their refined ranges, and never meander into someone else’s territory. Aside from Walsh’s need for backup, I didn’t notice one vocal flaw. Many musicians (see Billy Joel) lose a lot of range after six decades of living, four decades of touring, and five decades of drug use. Every time they sang together, I was enthralled…from what I could see, I may as well have been the only one.

Though the plethora of instrumentation and light-driven stimuli was a good step toward involving the crowd, most fans are about as old as the band. They stayed seated, unless they had dropped well over $200 on close floor seats. The only time people stood was after certain songs, out of respect, as if saluting a maestro after brilliantly conducting a 200-year-old work of art. While I agree that "Hotel California" and "Desperado" are brilliant works of art that are deserving of the ovations they got, some during-the-song-enthusiasm would've greatly added to the high-energy atmosphere that The Eagles worked hard to establish and maintain.

At the same time, they don't take themselves too seriously, and it showed through the goofy photo montages and caricatured scenes playing behind them. This can be either a blessing or a curse, and unfortunately I found myself distracted by their class-clowniness to the point that, as the visualizations got cartoonier towards the end of the set, I had to consciously remind myself that there was an attention-worthy concert going on.

The highlight of the night, other than Glenn Frey's joke that "You Can't Hide Your Lying Eyes" was written for his first wife, "Plaintiff," (pause for laughter)...was definitely the earnest, emotional version of "Desperado." The harmonies soared and the band backed Henley with just enough force to provide the perfect heartbeat to one of the greatest, saddest love songs of all time. As Henley held the final note in his trademark tenor and, still in his black suit and tie, coolly gazed out at the adoring mass of fans standing in respect to 40 years of accomplishment, it was clear that the 1980 breakup is behind them, the "vacation" is over, and The Eagles are back.

Review: Jason Mraz - We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things (2008)

Jason Mraz has always been an infectious songwriter. And I mean that in the most endearing way possible. Waiting For My Rocket To Come was pure funkyfresh acoustic elation. So what if another pop acoustic guitarist from that era evolved into the artist currently known as John Mayer? So what if Mraz's second album, the cleverly eponymous Mr. A-Z, met the ire and disdain of virtually every music critic on the planet? I still loved (almost) every second of it. It was fun, it was cute, and above all, it was somewhere between respectable and bubblegum pop. And it still is.

I first heard Mraz during high school and his feel good lyrics, especially his wordplay, were unique and diverse and really spoke to my teenaged self. "You and I Both" was my long-distance-high-school-girlfriend-during-college anthem, as I'm sure it was for just about every other couple in that situation in 2003. I had no such sentimental connection to A-Z, though it was produced by Steve Lillywhite (U2, Dave Matthews Band, Peter Gabriel, Guster, Phish, Rolling Stones, etc.), which lends it a decent amount of credence. This time around, he doesn't even have that. In the five-plus years since Rocket, Mraz hasn't changed one damn bit.

He's still a mild pervert, a sex addict, and a wordplayer. But it's all so stale and forced. A-Z was an attempt at a newer, more produced sound. Sure, it came off as zany and ridiculous, but at least he tried! On We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things he's back to straight acoustic pop, but this time his witty quips are replaced with songs that are packed tight with a jumble of often nonsensical words.

What's worse, when his rhymes do make sense they are often embarrassingly frank about sex. I don't blush easily and I don't often get uncomfortable from the content of pop music (rap aside), but "Butterfly," Mraz unabashedly sings, "Curl your upper lip up and let me look around. Ride your tongue along your bottom lip and bite down, and bend your back and ask those hips if I can touch. Because they’re the perfect jumping off point of getting closer to your butterfly." Closer to your butterfly? Is this a joke? I can't believe a grown man wrote this. It gets worse, but I'll spare you...oh, I can't help it. Here's another gem from that same song: "You make my slacks a little tight, you may unfasten them if you like." The whole album is rife with overly graphic and unartistic descriptions of sex and shitty euphemisms for vaginae.

There is a token "You and I Both" style track entitled "Details in the Fabric," which is a refreshing throwback to when Mraz still had an artful, heart-touching way with words. In it, he advises a friend on how to best heal his broken heart with the simple counsel, "Hold your own, and know your name, and go your own way." It's simple, honest, and strikes a chord with anyone who's ever had to move on, which is everyone. That used to be the joy of Mraz...his ability to speak to the heart of complex matters in frank and/or clever ways. Other than "Details," there is no track that reminds us of that rare and valuable artistic quality. Unfortunately, the track is nearly ruined by the intro and outro, which consists of a pair of voice messages from, presumably, the friend that Mraz wrote the song about. It's a hokey ploy, though a valiant effort to fully establish the song's realism. The cherry on top is when the friend finishes the outro by jokingly confessing to being "an island of reality in an ocean of diarrhea." Funny? Yes. Appropriate for the song? Not even close. It's nice to see that Mraz doesn't take himself too seriously, but if he ever wants us to he'll have to refrain from the childish act of turning serioustime into playtime.

The music itself (lyrics aside) is very Mrazian and upbeat, with sentimental slow songs (most notably the aforementioned) scattered sparsely throughout. The one redeeming aspect of the entire album is the Stevie-Wonder-worth horn section that is featured on tracks 1, 4, 5, and 9. It's rather ironic that horniness is both the lyrical downfall and musical saving grace of We Sing, and it's a shame that he doesn't use it more. Similarly, Mraz uses a children's choir to back him up on several tracks, most notably the uplifting star track and first single "I'm Yours," and they add a layer of depth that is needed when it's there and missed when it's not. The grandiosity provided by the horn section and choir pales in comparison to the grandiosity of Mr. A-Z that drew so much unfair criticism, and works well to make the album much grander than it would have been in their absence.

Admittedly, I was toe tapping for most of the time, and however much I disliked the album as a whole, it's going to stay on the iPod for a while. While the infectious nature of his first two albums was charming, the infectiousness of We Sing is more viral than anything else, and far more nostalgically painful than what I had hoped to see come out of the almost three years since Mr. A-Z. It's abundantly clear that Mraz had a great time making We Sing...perhaps too great a time. His incessant self-indulgence reeks of immaturity, though I'm sure his die hard fans will consider this a goofy adolescence rather than a disappointing young adulthood.

Virginia is for Lovers

We drove for over three hours in the pouring, blinding rain to see Radiohead last night. The venue, Nissan Pavilion in Bristow, VA, is only 40 or so miles from DC, but due to flooding and general hickishness, roads were awfully crowded. Somehow we got to the show in time to catch more than half of Radiohead's epic set (see below):

All I Need
Jigsaw
Lucky
15 Step
Nude
Pyramid Song
Weird Fishes/Arpeggi
Myxomatosis
Idioteque
Faust Arp
Videotape
Paranoid Android
Just
Reckoner
Everything In Its Right Place
Bangers + Mash
Bodysnatchers

Like Spinning Plates
Optimistic
Karma Police
Go Slowly
Planet Telex

Fake Plastic Trees
The National Anthem
House Of Cards

Now, I could spend hours complaining about the terrible traffic patterns and disappointment I felt at having missed such an undoubtedly memorable first ten songs. I could tell you for days about how frustrating it is to drive stop-and-go for 7 hours just to see the greatest band on Earth play music for roughly 1 hour.

But those are not my overarching memories of last night. In fact, our exodus through the rivered streets and mucky highways of rural Virginia led us to a Garden of Eden, adorned with shifting camera projections and hanging lights, ruled by five Gods and Devils on a stage. Seeing Radiohead on stage for the first time was something so surreal, so religious, that it is hard for me to put into words.

For years, Radiohead has existed solely on my car radio, on CDs, on my iPod. When we took our seats in Row 19 in between "Paranoid Android" and "Just," the band was doused in white light. They looked so...human. These machines that lived in my electronic devices were there, real, making music for me. As soon as "Just" began, in a flurry and flash of bright lights, Radiohead became much more than a band. They were, in spurts of a few minutes at a time, entities all their own. In between songs, the human light brought them back to Earth. Thom Yorke even casually chatted with the capacity crowd. He was personable, fun...even humorous. He humbly thanked the crowd on the lawn, the masses willing to stand in the thunder and rain. However divine the musical performance was, the rehumanization of Radiohead between songs was tangible.

And then "Reckoner" started.

The dangling LED lights, fading from purple to blue to white, and the honeycombs of spotlights and video screens lifted the band to a new level of Godliness. As the drums pounded out the opening beat, tens-of-thousands of people were silent, in awe, waiting. Yorke's breathy falsetto started softly, tenderly and continued unabated through verse and chorus until, at the most transcendent of moments (2:23 in the MP3 on the right side of the page), the band fell out and Yorke was alone with his guitar, wailing, imploring, declaring, "Because we separate, it ripples our reflections."

And the drums were back in, driving the song forward toward its inevitable end. The crowd remained in a reverie, grooving and bobbing to the music. My eyes were wider than they've ever felt, and for just that one breakdown we all felt so connected.

The high was maintained for a few more songs and then, in a flash of blood red, Radiohead ripped us from Heaven and showed us the depths of a fiery angry Hell. From the opening chords, "Bodysnatchers" was a flailing, angry rant by Yorke. He was yelling, he was screaming, and his awkward scrawny body was writhing, as he preached to his loyal followers, "Has the light gone out for you? Because the light's gone out for me. It is the 21st Century. It is the 21st Century...I've seen it coming."

It scared me to feel so drawn to this leader, this God or Devil (or whatever the Hell Thom Yorke really is) on stage who seemed to bring thousands together, bring us to spiritually musical heights rarely known, and then leave us standing there dumbstruck in his wake. People sang along as if chanting to their supreme cult leader, carrying them on toward the afterlife. For the hour that I saw them on stage, they could have led 25,000 young adults willingly to drink the Kool Aid.

It is rare that a band can reach out to so many and grab them all at once, losing no one in its grasp. Somewhere between the human light, which revealed their instruments so clearly to me, and the reds, greens, and blues that accompanied me to Heaven and Hell and back, lie five real people with an incredible power.

"I really hope it was fucking worth it," nudged Yorke as Radiohead left the stage last night. And though my ratio of car-time to Radiohead-time was 7:1 instead of 2:3, I can say that no concert that I have ever been to was more worth it than last night's. To be Baptized by Radiohead in a deluge the likes of which I've never seen was worth it. To actually feel transcendent from listening to music was worth it. And to know that it was only a preview of what I'll get at All Points West on August 9th made it more fucking worth it than Thom Yorke could even imagine.