Yellow Fever
Joel Quenby warms up to Coldplay at their hugely successful concert in front
of some 9,000 fawning fans in Bangkok at the end of July.
Legendary “rockumentary” Spinal Tap astutely observed that bands well beyond their sell-by dates may relive former glories in the Orient. Accordingly, dreary outdated fare like Hotel California blares from Bangkok’s shops, restaurants and karaoke bars on a daily basis, while domestic pop generally proffers an unbearably diluted approximation of its Occidental counterpart. The prospect of Coldplay visiting the City of Angels is enough to send Yellow-wise expats, and possibly even hardened ladyboys, into paroxysms of pleasure at the musical relief en route.
But Bangkok dwellers expecting Coldplay to cancel their show at the last minute would be realists rather than pessimists. Media-amplified SARS and terrorism scares conspired to see off The Rolling Stones – although Mick lingered in Southeast Asia’s premier sin city to enjoy some downtime – and Blue, despite both offering limp alternative excuses.
These no-shows were compounded by the reckless likes of Atomic Kitten slipping through the promotional safety net for whistle-stop visits. All things considered, one could be forgiven for thinking the gods were having a craic at the expense of Thailand’s musically malnourished punters.
As David St Hubbins would attest, it’s a big deal when famous Westerners
visit the East: David Beckham almost caused riots when he arrived last month,
and Steven Gerrard and Michael Owen were distinctly agape at their rapturous
reception from fiercely devoted Thai aficionados.
MTV Asia awarded Coldplay the valuable Artist of the Month slot months ago, and converted Thais have been getting juiced up for the gig via the extended airtime devoted to A Rush of Blood to the Head. But fans awaiting their first glimpse of the only English band to crack the States since, er, Radiohead, feared the worst when news of Chris Martin’s recent arrest in Oz filtered through.
The incident bears
testament to Coldplay’s rapid ascendance in the global arena. A lot’s happened
in the three years since the earnest four-piece emerged with breakthrough single, Yellow. A Rush of Blood… foisted the band into the global spotlight, and while
Blur failed, Travis toiled and Oasis nearly destroyed themselves trying,
Coldplay have charmed their way into American hearts with disarming vulnerability and
buoyant determination.
Along the way, their humble singer became an unlikely A-list celebrity. Egos massaged in a vacuum of adulation and instant gratification inflate exponentially, but it’s still hard to accept that ultra-polite Chris Martin is capable of Liam Gallagher-esque camera rage – or of squiring serial celeb-snogger Gwyneth Paltrow.
Come showtime at the Impact Arena, and Brian Eno’s An Ending (Ascent) – eerie harbinger of the bile-spewing zombies of 28 Days Later – signals Coldplay’s entrance. The band launch into a slick and impressive introductory salvo with Politik’s jarring two-chord motif and Martin’s rousing imploration to “Open up your eyes.” Maintaining the pace with the defiantly chest-beating God Put A Smile Upon Your Face, it’s clear that transatlantic success has made Coldplay into a hot proposition live.
On-stage, Coldplay is all about Chris Martin – a
phenomenon compounded 
by the static repose of his reticent accomplices, who are
content to let him hog the limelight. The singer has evolved from deferential
choirboy to forceful frontman in the space of two albums: he bobs round the mic
as though treading on spongy floorboards, or melts into his piano like some
spasmodic hunchback.
It’s a mannered, emotive performance that retains the slightly calculated gaucheness of his Parachutes incarnation, embellished with cathartic jerks of energy. The overall effect is something like Mr Bean on ketamine.
The cavernous Impact arena – tonight, filled to at least three
quarters of its capacity – is hampered by a shaky sound system that sporadically
drowns Jon Buckland’s fluid guitar lines in squalls of distortion.
This date concludes Coldplay’s four-month world tour and, understandably, they don’t seem keen to hang around, whipping through a set that sags in a middle section pocked with unremarkable B-sides and rarities, delivered with a minimum of fuss.
But suspicions that the band are cruising on autopilot are blown away
with the inevitable, stadium-esque moments, like when Martin opens the mic to
the crowd for spine-tingling renditions of Yellow and The Scientist. The
impact is all-consuming and, although there’s something mawkish about Martin
jubilantly prancing the length of the stage, spastically shadowboxing the
heavens when he should be singing the choruses, there’s an unrestrained joy in
his reaction to the band’s Thai fans bawling, “Nobody said it was easy, oh it’s
such a shame for us to part…” back at him. When he says, “Kawp kun maak kap
[Thank you very much]” during the blissful chord change in Clocks, he has the
crowd eating from his hand.
It's blatantly obvious how much he loves the
adoration: “This is our last one tonight, but we’ll probably come back and do a
few more if you make enough noise,” he prompts, before returning for two
encores, and entreating the audience into singing a premature “Happy Birthday”
for Will Champion, “the best drummer in the world.”
At the end of Amsterdam, Martin rolls onto the keyboard of his piano in a foetal curl, as if returning to the womb. It’s a fitting end; a physical manifestation of his lyric: "Home, home – where I wanted to go."
-- Published in Untamed Travel magazine / Read Joel's review of X&Y