I grew up in a house without much music in it. The silent melody of my Dad and the clamor of angry shouting and vitriol from my Mom were really the only instruments in our home orchestra of two. My mom was the conductor of our family symphony. She waved her baton ferociously, often landing on me in the form of a shoe, wooden spoon, hangar, hairbrush and even the flat of her hand. There was a silent chorus, my brother and sister, standing mutely in the wings. The three of us learned to just stay out of the way in the hush of our rooms.
But music has a way of slipping into your life, unchecked, from a myriad of places. The radio in the car. Music in stores. Friends who shared, and even occasionally tv shows. Nowadays, I discover new music on YouTube where my first introduction to Coldplay happened. As a teenager, though, I was relegated to listening to what my parents listened to, not too popular with my adolescent cohort so I didn’t share.
Fortunately and fortuitously, with the help of my grandfather, what did sneak its way into my life were songs by artists who helped me through my uneasy teenage years. He gave me a record player for one of my birthdays and with that gift my record collecting began. I found a community that, musically, captured with their relevant lyrics how I felt. So many artists writing deeply emotionally charged songs eased the silence of my room and gave me an avenue for hope.
When James Taylor wrote, “when you’re down and troubled and you need a helping hand” in You’ve Got a Friend, he was that hand for me.
In At Seventeen, Janis Ian penned “to those of us who knew the pain,” I knew what that pain felt like.
Elton John sang in Your Song, “I hope you don't mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is while you're in the world,” it felt like someone saw me.
And of course, The Beach Boys singing In My Room captured what a safe place should be, “There's a world where I can go and tell my secrets to, in my room.” I lived in a world of secrecy and I yearned for my room to be a safe place.
Dozens of songs were a solace to me through high school and into college.
Then, in my 20s I married a guy who wanted to be a disc jockey on the radio. Music became a part of my life in an entirely new way. It was the 1980s. He was the morning man at a Top 40 radio station. I listened to what he played. In between weather updates, birthday greetings, local advertising and his glib schtick, I heard the hits of the 1980s and 90s, an eclectic mixed bag of songs. Some struck a chord; but not the same notes as those of my youth. Music was just a background thread in the fabric of my life.
Kid music dominated the next phase of my musical journey. The songs of Sesame Street and Barney and Disney musicals governed our household for years. I can still sing the opening refrain to Disney’s Robin Hood, a song I’ve heard at least 100 times … oh de lally, oh de lally, golly what a day bounces around in my head to this day.
As these melodies quieted and my children grew up, music somewhat disappeared in my house. Technology had arrived — ipods and headphones. My kids were listening to all sorts of artists, but I wasn’t privy to any of them. We still gathered around the TV to watch musicals. Our tastes expanded to include cinematic blockbusters and Broadway musicals recreated in film. But listening to music as my children moved into the teenage realm, happened predominately in my car, when my children weren’t in it. Nothing I played had any relevance to them … and they really didn’t like it when I sang along!
And then they weren’t in my car anymore. My life had changed. My son and daughter-in-law lived in Oregon, my daughter had moved to Columbus and married an Ohioan and my record-spinning ex-husband had moved to North Carolina. So there I was, one night home alone poking around YouTube when I came across a video celebrating the almost 100-year-old Dick Van Dyke, a superstar in my family thanks to his performances in Mary Poppins, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Bye Bye Birdie. Apart from it just being a beautiful tribute to him and his family, it introduced me to the song All My Love, sung by a guy I’d never heard of — Chris Martin, the lead singer of the band Coldplay. When I mentioned this amazing new discovery to my daughter she smiled in a kindhearted way and said, “Oh mom, they’ve been around for 25 years.”
What! Clearly I had been living in a musical desert for a while.
I spent way more time that I care to admit in a deep dive into all things Coldplay. I was fascinated by their story. How do four young men, arriving at college from different areas in the United Kingdom end up playing music together in their college dorm and go on to become one of the biggest bands in the world? And stay together for decades as musicians, yes, but more importantly as friends? What has to align in the universe to make that happen?
When I came up for air, I had been transformed at age 70… into a Coldplay fan, maybe even a fanatic! I was smitten by Coldplay’s epic narrative and, honestly, by Chris Martin. He has a comforting charm, seemingly irresistible to women and inoffensive to men. He is darling, funny, smart, thoughtful, self-reflective and even though I’m old enough to be his mother, I readily admit to an enormous infatuation with him.
I am equally passionate about Coldplay’s music. Every album. There isn’t a song in their body of work I don’t like. I’ve watched as many videos, interviews and documentaries about them as I can find. I’ve witnessed them grow from somewhat geeky young musicians into extraordinary artists. Each member is vital to the band’s success. I love that. Collaboration and partnership speaks to my soul. Jonny, Will, Guy and Chris bring it to life.
I have yet to see the band in concert, but from the videos I’ve scrutinized this collaboration includes concertgoers as well. I can’t wait to be one of the voices in the sing-along that happens when Chris Martin invites the audience to join in to any one of Coldplay’s superhits. I hope, and imagine, it will feel like being part of a joyous collective hug by all involved.
There’s a haunting quality to Chris Martin’s voice in The Scientist when he sings, “Oh, take me back to the start.” That’s what Coldplay’s music is for me, a return to how music first resonated in my life, alone in my room. Belonging, the knowledge that someone else in the world understands, a feeling that happens when a song fills every cell in your body is what’s manifested.
I listen to Coldplay not as a child behind closed doors in my room, or as a wife supporting my husband or mother indulging my children, but as an adult, singing at the top of my lungs in my car and garden, walking on the beach, hiking a trail. I’ve embraced that I am just an unabashed Coldplayer, a title I’ve coined for myself. Music is life changing. I found what speaks to me, Chris Martin reminding me, “Don’t ever give up!”