When the chilling quasi-single “Midnight” came out a couple months ago to tease Coldplay’s sixth album, my interest was piqued. The dizzying iciness of that song was so unlike anything on its chart-busting preceding album Mylo Xyloto (2011) that I hoped the stadium rockers were getting a little tired of Top 40 and were experiencing creative wanderlust. I imagined them hoisting the sharp alt-pop sensibilities of their early days on their backs and journeying into a place of even greater lushness and imagination.
Well, a girl can dream.
Ghost Stories is for all intents and purposes a break-up album, but the saddest thing about it is that it’s so void of any artistic display of emotion that the greatest indicator to its subject matter is any recent headline over Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow’s “conscious uncoupling” process. (Nice try, GOOP troop, but people have been divorcing that way for years. It’s called “not being total dicks to each other.”)
The minimalist atmosphere of Ghost Stories probably started out as a good idea--a step back from the costume rock of Viva La Vida and Mylo Xyloto--but the end result is little more than a neutered contrivance of cheap-o synth beats and grossly trite lyrics: “All I know is that I love you so much that it hurts.” Aww, dude. Why ya gotta?
So I'm listening to this album and hearing a lot of Chris Martin feeling sort of sad via shallow imagery, but I could have sworn there were other members in this band. Truth is there is nothing to speak of instrumentally that can’t be done by an overpaid producer tinkering by himself on Ableton for a bit; I wonder how the rest of the band agreed to become so obsolete? On that note, why the hell did this album take two and a half years to make? They could have produced triple the mediocrity and multiplied their profits.
On an aimless road of sapless ballads, there is one anthemic moment with the penultimate song “A Sky Full of Stars,” a Euro dance pop track only remarkable for how nauseating it is, apparently borrowed from Ryan Seacrest’s 16-year-old nephew who sometimes DJs at his high school parties. Christ, I’d divorce this guy, too.
Okay, that was harsh. It’s certainly not the worst pop album I’ve ever heard, but if that’s the standard Coldplay is going by now, then they've got a real problem.
I suppose as one of the highest-earning bands in the world, they may have learned how to simply abuse their power, but it's more likely that they've lost control of it. After a humble but striking start to their career and then the grandiosity of their last two albums, the mood they've achieved with Ghost Stories is awkward; it doesn't plunder or even try very hard to explore the depths of personal loss--lyrically or sonically--but it's too intimate for us not to be curious. As listeners, we're caught in the middle, wallflowers at a stranger's funeral. We should be wailing over the damn coffin.
Some nice moments: Midnight, Oceans
Skip it, bop it, kill it: Ink, A Sky Full of Stars
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