Chris Martin is shit.
Do not believe the herd. My life over the last two decades has been swamped with people spouting mealy-mouthed crap like “I don’t want to say Chris Martin is shit because it ain’t up to me to tell others how to listen”. Damn straight. It AIN’T up to you to tell others what to like. You so scared of being thought wrong that you can’t even figure out what you like yourself, though? You so scared of being viewed as ancient or caring or dismissive of the common herd or (shudder) a critic that you can’t state your own opinions loud and clear, though? CHRIS MARTIN IS SHIT. He’s a beardy bland comfort zone for people with little life experience and zero expectations beyond the promise of the new La La Land DVD in the post from Amazon, a smug histrionic sweep of secondhand emotion whose primary concern is not LURVE or HOPE or… wait, why am I even discussing the music business with you? Chris Martin is shit. You don’t need to be brave to say this, you don’t need to be bold. You don’t need to be attention-seeking, you don’t need to be a nerd. Chris Martin is shit. You don’t need to listen to Coldplay or work out to them down the gym or listen to their legion of dreary fans to realise this, just read the apologetic commentary from those too afraid to state the fact, the apoplectic commentary from those who think they’re Making A Statement by coming out against them, the fawning heedless commentary from those whose idea of a varied and worldly musical taste means including a Beck album on their playlist of Ed Sheeran, Damien Rice, Sam Smith, Adele and (shudder) Coldplay. Look at the way he looks. Not so much a performance as an exercise in adult-baby entitlement. Chris Martin is shit. How many times do I need to say this before you start listening? Hey, why not start listening? Just cos you’ve only heard a handful of songs in your life does not mean that no alternatives exist. Chris Martin is shit. Do not be scared of the crowd. Has it not occurred to you that the crowd can be wrong sometimes? Chris Martin is shit. The idea of listening to his music drives me to extremes of ennui that I thought only political commentators could instill in me these days. Chris Martin is shit. Banner it from the rooftops and the toilet stalls. He is dreary, whiny, narcissistic, grey. Chris Martin is shit. He makes Ed Sheeran sound like a throng of talented schoolchildren. He makes Dave Grohl shine with integrity. He puts Trump into perspective. He is crap. He is crap. He is the crap in the middle of crap. His emotion is not ours. It’s nothing, needless, empty. Chris Martin is shit. Useless shit that pervades the world with the smell of self-serving greed and neoliberal entitlement. Privileged shit. Chris Martin is shit. He is one more commodification, a brand that provides an outlet for… nothing. Shit. Less than nothing. Shit. Lifestyle accoutrement. Shit. An approximation of music that does not attempt to capture the spark that can make music so special, so magical, so special. The boy next door, several blocks away in the rich part of town, who should have stayed inside with his collection of silver spoons. Cultural appropriation so half-assed you don’t even realise what’s going on.
I eat at Burger King, if I fucking have too. I drink coffee at shit chains, very rarely. Chris Martin is shit. And that shit is everywhere.
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