Foul Play

The buzz lately is that the Britpop scene is rearing its ugly head once more for another "invasion," after its first wave of Oasis, Radiohead, Blur and Pulp fizzled instead of banged. Hot on the heels of UK chart thrashers Travis, Coldplay release their debut, Parachutes.

The buzz should end here before things get nasty.

Reaffirming the growing realization that bands of white guys with two guitars and drums is embarrassingly anachronistic, Parachutes rips halfheartedly from so many bands that the result ends up being way less than the sum of its parts.

The very first single "Yellow" is pretty indicative of the mediocrity to follow. "I came along / I wrote a song for you / And all the things you do / And it was called 'yellow'." Take that, "Wonderwall!" There's no reason to try to sound like a weak derivative of the already-derivative Oasis (in Math 32 terms, that makes Parachute a second derivative of a good album).

The album's best offering is the well-crafted single "Shiver," which suggests that perhaps there could be some potential for in the band if they ever take The Bends and Definitely Maybe out of their CD player. In the meantime, lead singer Chris Martin sounds like Jeff Buckley on quaaludes, all whine and none of the manic intensity, and Johnny Buckland should be ashamed for his "manky" (there's some Brit for you) shambling of the Edge's ricochet guitar signature. Beware rumors that this band is the next Radiohead-this is exactly the sort of sloppy pop that Thom Yorke and co. are running so frantically away from.