Some spheres that are in Coldplay‘s orbit:
- A cricket ball hitting Chris Martin in the bollocks
- An impossibly circular turd
- One of Gwyneth’s candles which smells like a fanny. (OK it’s a cylinder, close enough though)
Chris Martin and Coldplay have written an album about the music of spheres. I have written about how astronomically shite it is.
The first song, according to the streaming service I am using, is an ode to the London Underground. You see they have forgone actual words for song titles and have instead deployed what looks like emojis. Here’s a good one. 💩.
‘Humankind’ goes, well I can’t actually print all the abuse to the English language and the pissing on the grave of the great poets and songwriters that have gone before him, that constitutes lyrics, but here’s a snippet that should be enough for Tangerine and Noah, or whatever his kids are called, to divorce him. “I say I know, I know, I know/We’re only human/I know, I know, I know/How we’re designed, yeah/Oh, I know, I know, I know/We’re only human/But from another planet/Still, they call us humankind”. Unless of course Kumquat and Abraham did actually write them when they were five and Chris found them in the loft whilst chucking out books by Joyce, Keats, and Thomas.
Humankind goes into ‘Star Emoji’ that threatens to be a cover of ‘Money for Nothing’ but just morphs into the kind of elevator music they pump into the Planetarium as you stare at a ceiling of projected stars. This incidentally is the same thing as the guestlist for this album because next up is Selena Gomez for some inexplicable reason other than she is very, very famous. I suppose it helps to have two people who can’t really sing play over a Michael Jackson backing track reject from circa History album.
Next is ‘Heart Emoji‘ which is telling us all that boys and girls are different and that boys don’t cry or talk about their feelings. Thanks, Chris. They seem to have agreed with their next round of “fts” that they won’t sing more than one note as they are all so futuristic they can’t be arsed to sing and are instead monotone robots.
On ‘People of the Pride’, Coldplay are so ahead of the times that they may have actually stolen a Muse riff that hasn’t even been written yet, whilst also managing to sound disturbingly like Gary Glitter. Martin must be angry; he seems to be talking about a fictional dictatorship (more likely a cross between Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump) and he says “fucking”. Naughty boy.
It is all so painfully themed around space and Sci-Fi that it really does sound like it should be soundtracking Buck Rogers or Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. The 70’s original versions.
‘Biutyful’ (I mean, what the actual sic fuck) starts with a cartoon character or a Telly Tubby on fucking poppers and nitrous oxide. I think it is actually Martin himself arsing about with autotune. It might be the worst thing ever put to tape or digital cloud. His lyrics are twee sub-nursery rhyme wank at the best of times on here but now he’s going all out to be the theme tune writer for CBeebies.
It would not surprise me that this is in fact a Chris Martin solo album in all but name, actually recorded on his own during the lockdown, sat alone in his studio getting high on his own farts in an airless room post-kale soup and bread made from the shit of a mongoose. If not, the other three have just literally and metaphorically phoned in their parts.
Guitarist Johnny Boring Bollocks doesn’t feature much on this as his trademark repeated riff that he has already played on the first three albums and has been dining off ever since, is absent.
They’re “olay, olay, olay” -ing now.
Drummer boy Bob seems to have been replaced by a machine but with more personality. However, I am sure he’ll return for their sustainable and carbon-neutral tour in a new pair of trousers with luminous bird shit all down the legs like a flock of pigeons had just eaten a consignment of Coldplay’s neon glow sticks and had catastrophic diarrhoea all over them as they sat on a rock in the countryside eating rice cakes flavoured with the jizz of a bat.
Whilst admittedly their eco-friendly tour is noble and worthy of applause they could do as well to save the planet by staying home and not inflicting this festering turd of a record on the world and even by giving it a rest all together and not making albums at all, clogging up the pressing plants, and letting genuinely great, young bands help destroy the world by making more vinyl records.
In fact, the sooner he is jettisoned into space and being consciously uncoupled from his ship to live with his stars and moons and spheres and twinkly lights the better for humankind.