Q Magazine, October 2000 (Interview)

NO, THEY'RE NOT THE NEW RADIOHEAD. NEITHER ARE THEY THIS YEAR'S TRAVIS. THEY ARE THE VERY SINGULAR COLDPLAY AND THEY'VE JUST ENTRANCED JAPAN, NORWICH AND THE MERCURY MUSIC PRIZE PANAL WITH THEIR HUMBLE, TAKING-IT-ON-THE-CHIN ROCK. "THIS IS A STRANGE AND CONFUSING TIME," THEY TELL NICK DUERDEN

Norwich's Art Center, which could easily double as a church on a Sunday given its ornate architecture, has a sign on the door informing the fast-growing crowd that tonight's show by Coldplay is completely sold out. It goes on to point out that people are nevertheless most welcome to sit on the grass out front - which, given the day's lingering heat, they readily do.

Later, various members of the band will amble by. The collected students will point shyly, unsure of whether that is really the bass player, whose name they have temporarily forgotton. It's a tiny place, the Arts Centre, and an unusual choice of venue for a band whose debut album, Parachutes, recently entered the charts at Number 1 and has now gone platinum. But then, this is a rescheduled date from back when Coldplay were just another Terris, another Idlewild, and not yet the year 2000's Great White Hopes.

Backstage, the band hang around looking sheepish and bemused. They look sheepish and bemused for much of the time, actually. It could be part of their nature. Singer Chris Martin signs autographs for fanzine writers and never once neglects to thank them all for coming. In addition to being rather tall, he is also unfailingly polite.

"This is a strange and confusing time, to be honest," he says. "Since the album came out we've not been in the country as much as we've been busy doing promotion in Europe. So coming back here, it's a bit difficult to grasp any of it." He walks along one corridor, then up a flight of stairs. Along the way, he encounters more people demanding autographs.

"Oh. Oh, good. We've been speaking to a lot of German journalists recently. They've no clue who we are." The shrug, clearly a current trait, comes again. "So are we famous then?"

"Well, that's, um, that's nice," he decides, almost warily. "What I mean is, it's a nice surprise. Not that I don't think we deserve it, because we do. In a way, it's a bit like a surprise birthday party. It's your birthday so it's perfectly feasible that someone will throw you a party, right? And if they don't tell you about it beforehand, then it will be a surprise, but not really much of one because, well, you know..."

Mercifully, he stops talking to take a breath, and then smiles quizically. There is a small bottle of mineral water by his left hand. He drinks from it. "Does that make any sense?" he wonders.

Formed just three years ago, their ascent has been astonishingly quick - quicker even than Steps. Before signing to Parlophone - "home," they helpfully point out, "to The Beatles" - just over 15 months ago, they released one self-financed record, the Safety EP, followed by a single, Brothers & Sisters, on independant label Fierce Panda. Three months into their Parlophone contracts they say and passed their finals (all four - Chris Martin, guitarist Jon Buckland, bassist Guy Berryman and drummer Will Champion, all ages between 22 and 24 - met at University College London). From the Home Counties, Devon and North Wales, they are all decent, middle-class boys who will one day become the apples of their mother-in-law's eyes.

In June, they played a mid-afternoon slot at Glastonbury to an impressive crowd of 10, 000. By this stage they had already scraped into the Top 40 two months earlier with Shiver but, two weeks after the performance, their single Yellow went straight to Number 4 in the charts. Overnight, they became the New Radiohead Only Catchy and Friendly, the New Jeff Buckly Only Alive and With Sales. Critics started calling them The Men Who, the inference being that what Travis in 1999, Coldplay will do this year. The similarities between the two bands are slight, but both write emotive, pronouncedly elegaic songs that unfurl at their own leisurely pace. Parachutes is an ususually graceful album, the sound of men mature beyond their years. The bookies have it as favourite to win the Mercury Music Prize in September.

For such a new band, Coldplay are enjoying a remarkable run of both support and respect. There is, however, a lone detractor. When he heard that they'd been nominated for the Merucry and his own much treasured Primal Scream hadn't, Creation Records founder Alan McGree declared that they made "music for bedwetters."

"Yes, but he's just an old punk isn't he?" Chris counters, running a hand nervously through his grown-out buzz cut. "We're not sure how we feel about the nomination just yet. It's a strange position to be in, isn't it? We're hardly pushing boundaries, but then it's not been a good year for great albums, so of course we should be there. We know exactly what we'd do with the prizemoney [£25, 000] though...

"Well, let's just say we'd like to put it to good use, maybe give it away. It's not like we need it, or anything. As long as we've got enough money for clean socks, we're happy."

There is a moment of vaugely awkward silence and then Chris apologises to his band mate. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. I just didn't know that you liked Primal Scream, that's all." Then, turning to Q, he looks embarassed. "Don't put that in, will you?"

Chris Martin has obvisouly never read an interview with Noel and Liam Gallagher. There is nothing wrong with a little difference of opinion, Q suggests. "All right, just say that Jonny likes Primal Scream, but I've never had much time for them."

This is typical of Coldplay. They are really quite awfully nice people. In fact, McGee has a point about them not being very rock'n'roll. Take them individually and Buckland, Berryman and Champion are walking definitions of humility. Ask them what it feels like to be suddenly famous, feted and, imminently, very wealthy, and they answer in much the same way someone recently promoted from shelf-stacker to chasier at the local supermarket. It is hard to imagine them raising their eyebrows, much less impatiently tapping at major veins.

Yet Chris Martin is not a dispassionate man. From his lyrics - he sings of anguish with all the empathy he says. "of a teenage boy stuck in his room at home, sat on an old pile of Razzles" - you'd expect a youth rendered listeless and indolent by the cares of the world, but in the flesh he's quite the opposite. Raffish, his piercing blue eyes constantly bugged as if earth-shattering realisations are forever dawning on him, he neither drinks, smokes nor swears (although, later he will come close to the latter). His smile - a riot of teeth - makes him look completely mad. And all this without the aid of narcotics.

"We're tired all the time these days," he says. "It's amazing we even get up in the morning. You know, I can't even remember the last time we actually sat down to write a song. No time, you see."

Since 31 July, the date of the Q-witnessed show in Norwich, Coldplay have been to Japan and back. Tomorrow, they head for Portugal. It's been like this for some time.

"It's good that we have the opportunity to take our music to other countries, but it also feels weird, like we're travelling salesmen. When we got back from Japan, I saw adverts for the album on the television. I had no idea we were TV advertised! It's like we Nescafe or something." He scratches his chin, deep in thought. "But I suppose, untimately, it's a good thing, because we're getting our music to as wide an audience as possible. And it is good music, after all."

"I know we're largely seen as humble young men," he begins, "but I sometimes think people don't appreciate just how actually good we think we are. We're...we are good. I've never really gone on record as saying this before, but I will say it for the first time here in Q." Comically, he clears his throat. The breath is a deep one. "We are a genuinely excellent band. One of the ten best bands in the world in fact. In my opinion, at least." He reconsiders. "No. No - it's a fact. And I would defend that with flipping knives."

"The success of Yellow and the album is not, I think, a glaring error," he continues. "We deserve it, we really do. We're just not comfortable saying it aloud very often. But I love this band. It's the reason I get up in the morning."

At the show in Norwich a week earlier, Chris Martin introduced Yellow thus: "In the 70s, there was Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, in the 80s there was Duran Duran's Rio and in the 90s Runaway Train by Soul Asylum. We're Coldplay and this is Yellow."

Q reminds him of this and he smiles bashfully. "What I was trying to say there was that I do think it's a really important song, perhaps even a defining one. You know, before this band we were all in really dodgy school bands and none of us were ever going to get anywhere even though it was our ultimate dream. I remember when I was about 15 I went through an electronic pop phase where I thought it was a really good idea to wear a leather waistcoat on stage." He explains that there is video evidence of this and feats that it will one day come back to haunt him. "But when I met Jonny at university, it was just like, I don't know, India colliding with Asia, two huge continents coming together..."

It shows too. While the album's soporific mood suggests that Coldplay, live, are as mournful as a church service, all low-lighting and sombre poses, they are actually very entertaining. Quite the fop, Chris is a witty, talkative frontman who likes to share jokes with the audience. During songs as fraught as Trouble or Sparks, his face has an expression reminiscent of Rolf Harris' shortly before he asks, Can you tell what it is yet?

"To be honest, it's difficult not to smile when we are on stage because we're just having such a brilliant time," he says, beaming. "But we have been talking about our performances recently. Now that we actually have more people turning up to our shows, should we become more serious and more studious? Should I actually keep quiet in between songs, or should I come across all Oscar Wilde and flaunt my biting wit? See, I don't want to go and overdo things, but it's kind of nice to have a chat with the people who have paid to be here."

Several days pass. "We are experiencing some amazing times," boggles Chris Martin, munching on a slice of cake in a London photographic studio. "In many ways, our lives are just the same, but they also have changed completely. It was weird to go to Japan, somewhere we've never been before, and have all these people clamouring for our autographs."

"Well, anyway, it was fantastic. And then me, Jonny and Will couldn't sleep one night, and so we came down to the bar in the hotel and chatted away with these really amazing barmen looking out of the windows at this great big volcano, eating chocolate..." He drifts away.

"At the moment, yes, it's great fun," he says enthusiastically. "Although we're hardly Bon Jovi just yet. But, I have to admit, this burgeoning fame thing certainly has its advantages."

"Well, a couple of weeks ago I went out on my first date with my new girlfriend. While we were out, I got recognise for the very first time in my life. Not once, but twice!" He leans forward conspiratorially, his voice a whisper, those blue eyes huge. "Between you and me, I think she was pretty impressed."