Last night at the Grammys, held annually each year inside Clive Davis's rapidly disintegrating ear canal, Chris Martin of Coldplay apologized to Paul McCartney for his band's derivative sartorial choices: "I’d like to say first thank you and sorry to Sir Paul McCartney for blatantly recycling the Sgt. Pepper album." I waited for an larger apology to the public in general, not just for the outfits but for the music, but unfortunately one never came.
So the question remains, based on their costumes, who does Coldplay think they are?
--The real Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, you know, if there was one.
--The original Fraggle Rock
--Highly decorated officers in the army of bland.
--The world's only Martika cover band. (They can play "Toy Soldiers" in 4 languages!)
--Founding members of the Modern Troubadour Society (Non-Renaissance Faire Division)
--The touring company of a rock production of The Nutcracker
--Soldierz Of Kewl
--Karl Lagerfeld multiplied by a crying rainbow
--The Corey Feldman Appreciation & Reenactment Club
The Martin/Paltrow household is like the living museum of mediocrity. It might just be the only artist's colony to be housed inside a giant refrigerator on top of a high horse. While Gwyneth labors in her upstairs study on her GOOP newsletters, babbling to her mirrors about where to find the perfect faux-antebellum drawer-pulls that also recall the pathos of Dorthea Lange's dustbowl photographs, Chris Martin is downstairs in his sewing room, surrounded by boxes of Rit dye and bowl after bowl of ribbons, buttons, and other trimmings, trying to come up with a Boy-Scout-based merit epaulet system.