Music is the same way. I grew up chewing on the angst, the bliss, the stories (shouted and whispered) that came into my ears in private moments, in headphones, in the background of some watershed moment in the sandbox, in the treehouse, in the car, in the bedroom ... you get the idea.
Now we're at a time in music where we're skipping over the whispers in favor of something louder, something so raw it leaves you shivering, stunned and completely able to ignore the havoc it's wreaking on your eardrums. Fans and critics alike are celebrating the return of the 'garage' band-The White Stripes, The Vines, The Hives-turn on the television and you'll see or hear them somewhere before you can say "Tommy can you hear me?" I enjoy it, I really do, but there are times when I'm looking for the illusions that are only afforded to you when they come wrapped in whispers.
Coldplay, a seemingly typical britpop/alterna-rock band (think Radiohead on Valium), gained considerable recognition with their debut record "Parachutes" in 2001. "Parachutes" was a near-perfect sojourn through sorrow-you could keep it on in the background if you wanted, you could let it boom in your ears as you drove through the night and the rain and away from all that ailed you (or perhaps towards it); it was one of those albums that you could be real with, that you could identify with, that you could enjoy. Their latest effort, "A Rush of Blood to the Head," is no less enjoyable-in fact, I might venture to say that it's more so.
Frontman Chris Martin's voice, though still eerily reminiscent of Radiohead's Thom Yorke, has come into an edge that wasn't there before. It's as if he's taken the trend to the raw and mighty, entered into this a lamb, and left a quietly intense lion-without any of the bravado, the hair, the sickeningly Mod appearance of some of todays alternative staples. He's a man. He's a boy. He feels things. He cries. He laughs. He sings about it. It's that simple, that accessible.
Where "Parachutes" may have been a more introverted record, "A Rush of Blood to the Head" is anything but shy. "Give me real / Don't give me fake" Martin warns on the opening track, "Politick," leaving the listener to struggle with whether he's warning them or reminding himself. "There's a lot more fear on the last record, a lot more blatant insecurity, whereas on this one it's more hidden," said Chris Martin in a recent press release. "We've grown up, travelled a lot more ... Musically, we've heard more: The Cure, PJ Harvey, Nick Cave, New Order ... A lot of it is meant to be about drive and confidence in the face of worry and insecurity."
"Rush" certainly doesn't fall short of Martin's claims-indeed, it's an ambitious record. It's also a sad record. It's an emotional record. It's a whimsical record. It's a record, ultimately, which lets Coldplay itself and their listeners deal head-on with the fact that something may in fact be rotten in the state of Denmark, but you don't necessarily have to take it lying down. That hurt doesn't have to be passive. That those insecurities don't have to be all-consuming. That sadness ends as it begins, that reality can easily triumph over the finagling of those who would rather have it any other way-that if the grass is greener there's probably fertilizer or paint involved-and finally, that those whispers, while quiet, don't have to be passive.
Sometimes, in fact, they sound like screams.