The Quietus on Coldplay’s new LP – “from its arse to its f***ing elbow, one, long stagnant f***ing pool of premium grade f***ing cockwash”

ColdplayBest. Review. Ever.

Two years in the making, alternative rock band Coldplay’s new album, essentially a concept piece about Chris Martin’s break-up with Gwyneth Paltrow, has certainly garnered a number of extremely favourable reviews. In today’s harsh critical climate when major groups can expect to be torn to pieces by a fearless music press regardless of the consequences, that’s remarkable indeed. It’s all the more remarkable given that all things considered, Ghost Stories is from its arse to its f***ing elbow, one, long stagnant f***ing pool of premium grade f***ing cockwash! I would rather chew off my f***ing scrotum than ever listen again to this boneless f***ing melange of morose f***ing piss-shit! I would rather eat an entire f***ing yurt, washed down with f***ing beige paint recently shat out of an incontinent yak’s anus! Put it this way; so remorselessly insubstantial is this album that if it were submitted to the f***ing British Homeopathic Association as a f***ing potential remedy, they’d f***ing knock it back, saying: “No good, mate. You’ve over-diluted it, you silly twat!”

Never in human f***ing history, since fish first slithered onto the f***ing land and sprouted limbs has there been a more nondescript f***ing decade than the f***ing Noughties and never has there been a more nondescript f***ing group than those gelatinous c***lords Coldplay! They made Dido sound like Bessie f***ing Smith! They filled the giant f***ing void in pop culture in the early 21st century because they are a giant f***ing void! Somehow, Martin’s knack for trudging up and down a keyboard like a middle aged man in f***ing chinos strolling to the f***ing corner shop to buy the f***ing Daily Express while singing like he’d just been kneed in the f***ing bollocks caught the zeitgeist of the dullest, do-nothing, think-wishfully generation of all f***ing time! In the rock & roll hall of fame they sit near the f***ing exit like a f***ing birch veneer occasional f***ing table! Getting excited about f***ing Coldplay is like getting excited about the f***ing Liberal Democrat Spring conference!

Anyway, Martin got married to f***ing Gwyneth Paltrow, that ghastly, gulping, giraffe-necked, sick-making long drink of carb-averse goop, they created their own f***ing hole in the f***ing ozone layer flying around the world with Martin warbling about how concerned they were about the f***ing environment, spawned a couple of sprogs and saddled them with life-ruining names, promoted every f***ing vapid strain of spiritual, anti-materialist New Age nonsense while raking in the f***ing ackers like whorehounds and then finally “consciously uncoupled”, though it’s a f***ing wonder either of them could stay f***ing conscious in each other’s company at all, given that they’re the two most testicle-achingly f***ing tedious people on earth! And now Chris is sad. He feels like shit. And he’s perfectly conveyed that unremittingly f***ing excremental condition on f***ing Ghost Stories!

So, track one ‘Always In My Head’ sets the f***ing dolorous tone. “I think of you/I haven’t slept.”, whines Martin, while f***ing George, Ringo and Ringo or whoever the f*** the other three are try not to fall asleep at their f***ing instruments. Next up, ‘Magic’. No, sorry, it’s not about actual magic. Tommy f***ing Cooper retrieving the f***ing ace of spades from a pack using a f***ing blindfolded wooden duck, not that. Nothing remotely entertaining. No, as f***ing ever, Chris Martin’s here to suck all the f***ing joy out of the room like a giant f***ing Happiness Hoover! A wan swirl of keyboards, like that pink water you get at the f***ing dentist’s swilling down a f***ing metal hole, and Chris is all about how he f***ing “can’t get over” you know who…

read the rest at The Quietus | Reviews | Coldplay.

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