Coldplay. Impeccable musicianship. Stunning visuals. Lush sounds. Infatigable energy. Flawless choreography. Expert production. Winning message (what was it again? -- oh -- right -- 'emotion - it's all good'). Friendly personas. 'What's not to like?' as I told the tipsy dancer to my right.
I liked it well enough. I liked my concert companion. I liked the spectacle. This morning when I went for the paper, I did a little Chris Martin scamper in the grass, so I guess it changed me. Got me lighter on my toes. What if Chris sprained himself doing one of his leaping knee slides? Ouch -- tour hiatus for sure. See how the show awakened my compassion? What if the fan behind us, beer in one hand, cocktail in the other, lost his equilibrium, or his dinner, in our laps? See -- Coldplay really got me thinking about intimacy and trust.
Quicken Loans Arena, the Q, is a well oiled pleasure engine. The rafters groan with techno borg enhancements, the cavernous UFO scoops up humans, snaps us into numbered pods, tranquilizes cerebellums with massive waves of light and sound until we're synchronizing nicely. Community. That's a good thing, no? So why do I feel like I just woke up from a funky dream?
The Coldplay boys are not to blame, they've earned their fame, the humanoids adore them. I'm the one who bucks the norm, likes a little warmth in all that playfulness. But hey, I'm an alien myself, guitar enamored troubadour who'd rather be the purple cow than see one.
1 comment:
Excellent post - perhaps the best concert review I've ever read.
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