Diamond Geezer

I've long harboured a not-so-secret desire to have my own weekly column in a daily paper. It's a pipe dream more than anything and not a particularly nobel one. It's entirely driven by the same self indulgance that lets me tell myself someone will oneday find and enjoy these ramblings on here! I say things like "Well, if Ulrika Jonsson and Vanessa Feltz can do it...", or, "It's only one page a week. I could do that!" In fact though the roots of my desire go a little deeper.

I first realised that this was the pipe dream for me reading the columns in the Daily Express at my Grandma's house. Topaz Amore was amusing, Martin Samuel was very funny, if a little too focused on sport. Top of the pile, my favourite of all, was John Diamond. You may be aware that John Diamond quite famously died of cancer and recorded his experiences of the illness in his Times newspaper column. In the Express his illness merited no more than a passing mention. I knew he was ill but it was irrelavent. I enjoyed his writing, shared some of his views. Although I can't remember what those views were anymore.

I read his columns in the Express and latterly his tv column in The Observer, until the point when he stopped writing them, which wasn't until the end. When he died I was sad. I didn't cry or mourn but I was sorry he was gone, I would miss his wit and intelligence. He was like a favourite DJ or album. Familiar, there when you need it. I guess this is why I really want to be a columnist. The arrogant idea that I might become a fixture of peoples lifes. Not an important one, just something to look forward to, something familiar to enjoy over a cup of tea and a biscuit. I'd like people to miss my column if it finished, I'd like them to enjoy it while it lasts.

Yesterday I picked up C: Because Cowards Get Cancer Too, John Diamond's book about his cancer struggle. 90p in the local library sale. He stills speaks in the voice that I gave him but the tone, implicite in the words, is his own. I've reached a point in the book where he mentions other columnists who he had written fan letters to. If I was the sort of person who wrote fanmail to journalists I would've written to John Diamond.

The Coldplay problem

Recently a friend accused me of disliking Coldplay because they were so popular. I was told that if Coldplay weren't as successful as they are I wouldn't critisice them, I'd love them. Not true! I don't know about why anybody else critisises Coldplay but I know why I do.

When Coldplay started out I was quite impressed. I thought Yellow and that other one were alright, nothing amazing. The album was a bit weak but I figured they had time to improve. The one song that really got me was Don't Panic. I don't know why but that song really struck a chord with me and I thought it was something pretty special.

When it came time for A Rush Of Blood To The Head to be released things were looking very positive. EMI had gone overboard on promotion, which suprised me because Parachutes wasn't that big an album but there was a gap to be filled until the next Radiohead record so fair enough. Anyway, what really got me going was the whispers in the music rags. Leading up to the release Q, NME etc were hinting quite strongly that Coldplay were on the verge of releasing Something Pretty Special. I resolved to wait and hear for myself but all the same I felt a little excited. After all, we all want something special to happen don't we? We're all waiting, with various levels of cynisism, for that era defining, life changing record that's gonna come along and save us all.

Then the single came out. In My Place. Very pretty, very solid musicianship, very traditional instrumentation, very nicely sung, very innoffensive lyrics. Nothing. Special. Whatsoever. But you kid yourself don't you? Come on, we've all done it. "Oh well, yeah, the singles dull but they had to reassure the fans didn't they? They had to make a song like the old ones. The next one'll be the one. That'll show everyone what this band can do." Except that the next one was The Scientist. Then the album came out, A Rush Of Blood To The Head. Solid, traditional, dependable, listenable, a bit dull.

It would've been OK. It would've been fine, you know? They wouldn't have been the first band to promise so much and deliver so little. "Never mind lads", we could've told them, "You had a good go at it. What you've done is very nice, better luck next time." The thing is, somehow it didn't happen like that. Even after all the hype and expectation, even after we'd heard the record, even when the evidence of artistic failure was all around us the charade continued. The fans, the public, everyone! They all continued to act as if Coldplay had done it! As if the great Leap Forward had actually happened. As if the grafting of stadium sized dynamics onto pretty indie piano tunes represented the greatest shift of the musical goalposts since Sgt. Peppers, even though most of the songs sounded like Yesterday!

The critics raved, the public were even happier. They bought it by the shipload. Even the Americans liked it. Even the bloody Americans! Older, wearier, more cynical, I flew in the face of popular opinion and told everyone who would listen that it was a mistake, that it wasn't right, that this wasn't the album we'd been looking for after all and we'd have to go back to nurturing fresh talent. Only noone was listening, they were just turning up their Coldplay records. Drowning me out with Clocks. Meanwhile all the other bands began to catch on. Keane arrived, and Snow Patrol went all epic and polished. Even bands like Athlete, whose first album was quirky and individual, decided there was more mileage in churning out worthy but dull ballads from now on. Ditto Elbow who got rid of wonky time signitures and interesting songs to take the bland populist route. Dido released an album even duller than her first one. The record buying public decided it was "A bit Coldplay" and made it the second fastest selling album of all time.

The only people who noticed were the older acts. Morrissey and Liam Gallagher showed a bit of spirit but Bono and Noel Gallagher? They couldn't believe their luck! Just when it looked like the cultural wheel was about to turn, spinning away from them forever, here was this band determined to suck up to their elders and betters, continually namechecking U2 and Oasis and, better yet, making dull, safe music that made the latest efforts from their forebears seem fresh and vibrant. So they returned the favour, endorsing the young turks. They were all too aware that the longer this stuff kept selling by the shedload, the longer it would be till something new and vibrant replaced them all forever.

So that should have been that, the world trapped forever in a bland, antiseptic, dadrock utopia. Except that Coldplay weren't done toying with me yet. Chris Martin said that his band was gonna go away and reinvent the wheel. he practically promised! Maybe, just maybe, there was still hope? Maybe Coldplay could come good? Maybe they repay all the faith people have shown in them and actually make that brilliant, beautiful, life changing record I wanted all along? It'd be great! I'd forgive them all that went before, I'd pay silly money to see them in concert, they would change my life!

In their absense all sorts of ominous rumours began floating around. Rumours about writers block and digital music and kraftwerk influences. Surely this would be the record to shake the adoring, over comfortable, feckless masses out of their collective stupour? This could be their Revolver, this could be their Nevermind. Then, after a long and drawn out pause, the new single comes out. Speed Of Sound. How does it sound? Like Coldplay with a bit of U2.

But that's ok though, that's alright. They've got to have a song like the old stuff haven't they? Reassure the fans. Oh God when will it end?