Coldplay at Super Bowl 50: The Guitar Wrangler

Coldplay at Super Bowl 50: The Guitar Wrangler

Travelling with Jonathan M. "Jonny" Buckland brought out the best in me as a guitar player, but it's time to move on.

For three years, almost like an understudy, I’ve been his instrument “Wrangler” in charge of all his 20+ guitars: repair, maintenance, packing, moving, tuning, cleaning, and readying each one, for each song, of each set in Coldplay concerts.

Playing alongside him in rehearsals, bouncing riffs back and forth like Lebron James’ practice dummy: catching the ball, throwing it back… catching the ball, throwing it back… riff after riff after riff. While I’m actually doing Jonny’s mundane tasks I don’t think about it; it’s events like the NFL's Super Bowl 50 that make me think about what's next?

Wearing all black from head-to-toe, the best part of the job is bringing Jonny guitars onstage, sometimes changing in the middle of a tune. I pick up a little extra cash from Under Armour, one of the Coldplay tour sponsors, by wearing everything they make from shoes/socks, pants, hooded sweat-top, even black, sticky, football receivers gloves all sporting the interlocking “UA” symbol—I can’t drop guitars!

With the white-hot spotlight on the star and me in all black, I slip on and off the stage cat-like, never tripping on pedals, cords, amps, or speakers; each guitar is tuned-up, set to the right volume, and ready for another solo. The cat-burglar gets away.

It’s not quite like a NASCAR pit crew, but we have to keep accurate timing for a performance choreographed much like a Broadway play; what looks like a free-form, extemporaneous detour by one of the world’s best guitarists, has been practiced and tweaked like a daytime soap opera. 

The timing of a concert is exact, down to the last song. Only the encores are off the clock… The audience earns the encores, which are truly made-up as they play them. Coldplay’s Super Bowl 50 halftime is scheduled by the second, and we’ll probably only play three songs (that's a secret). 

http://www.levisstadium.com/

As big as the band is, we're just a few chaps from University College who'll get to perform in front of 100 million people on a stage in the middle of a bloody football field. (They're so humble they are performing for free; ironically, Jonny's favorite "football" team is the Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, which plays a different kind of game):

"I think we're firmly split down the middle between those of us who know absolutely nothing about football, and those of us who know almost absolutely nothing about football," said Buckland.

The instruments are Jonny’s tools, like a surgeon, and he principally uses a '72 Telecaster by Fender, which is like a Strat. Jonny Boy occasionally straps on a Gibson Les Paul, and sometimes even a Rickenbacker. More than 20 guitars used by Buckland provide a unique sound to accent Chris Martin’s lead vocals. 

In the last two CDs there have been guitar solos revealing his incredible talent:

Look to "True Love" off of Ghost Stories CD at 2:57 on the track; compared with "Up&Up" off their latest album at 3:19 in the song. There are more guitar solos I could quote you, but those two will do the trick.

Through the years, working with Jonny helped me develop the craft of songwriting, mostly considering the context of my work and the audience for whom they played. But songs are also written to express my own thoughts as a reflection of my ideas, or an expression of my personality. In a purely binary, economic analysis, songs are considered only on popularity or commercial success; but that structure has changed, music has more channels now in which to be discovered. My creativity cannot be too heavily influenced by my background as Coldplay’s guitar wrangler, as enjoyable as that experience has been. The music means more than the medium.

For me it has always been about the guitar. As an aviator or driver it is all about the vehicle, for a singer it’s about the voice, and in coaching, the victories. For me it is about the instrument. The rhythm, which provides structure for the song, the tone, which provides melody, and the chords, which undergird the accent of the words; all come from the lead guitarist: he’s the straw that stirs the drink. My inherent talent uses my eyes, ears, and fingers in coordination to play one of the most important instruments in the music industry. It was what I was made to do, and now I must be more purposeful about this gift.

After our 15-minutes of fame end with the halftime of Super Bowl 50, and I take off my black ninja suit; we’ll probably finish the evening back at the hotel playing our guitars, inventing new riffs. I may not even remember who won the game?

##

#FanFiction (2016) ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Leaving New York: True Love

Track Four #TrueLove

He loved Central Park. It gave him a feeling of liberation from confined space; oozing out of the pores of the freest city in the world--of possibilities outside its verdant borders. Staring out at the Park, the reality of his abrupt exit from FormCorp nearly suffocated him this evening on the way to the airport; slowly making his way north on Fifth Avenue, a sad soundtrack playing in the dark limousine.

The four years spent in Manhattan exceeded every dream he’d had of life in the City that Never Sleeps. It breathed life into him every morning as he walked the concrete canyons to work, even trudging through grey, slushy snow. As CEO of a wholly-owned subsidiary, he spent four years immersed in FormCorp and the culture of the financial district. Large corporations have diverse networks and traditions so ingrained they live like old families, oblivious to their dysfunction and set in their ways. With many of his ideas ignored or marginalized by the parent company and on the verge of a leadership shift; he’d decided to leave without much fanfare. It was time to go, but the city's twinkle faded before his eyes, refracted by tears. The city was moving on without him.

As an outsider from New York, coming into lead a major division was a difficult challenge; the ethos of this culture was an elitist brand of excellence, and every team was a team of type-A leaders. As hard as it was to gain the high ground in his group within the larger corporation, the years had flown by in “New York time,” making this evening’s final ride even more shocking. This was it. He was leaving her. The end of a short, torrid love affair, doomed from the beginning. How appropriate that the driver, Mike; like a friend by now, slipped Coldplay’s latest reflective album "Ghost Stories" into the stereo system; a musical representation of his crushed, defeated torpor. He lifelessly leaned against the door staring out at the city bustling by, seemingly like a lover fading down and away on a busy street, lost in the crowds.

He would miss the wild changes in seasons, fashionistas, the art, and the word-on-the street. Dining in Manhattan always presented challenges, but he enjoyed the “hunt” of finding just the right place to eat. Often you didn’t brag about some local discovery because you wanted to keep it to yourself, keep it from being overrun. Here, everything moved with such a velocity; from public opinion, to speeding cabs, the rise and fall of the markets, even the lithe Central Park “joggers” had a running pace he always envied. This was the City of the World; nothing like it.

["Most other American municipalities are segregated by class and culture, education and personal choice. But in New York everybody is jumbled up together and bounced around until you have African princes walking side by side with Appalachian Daughters of the American Revolution, and aspiring starlets making room for hopeful housewives past their prime. Even with real estate costs climbing above the reach of almost everyone, you can still find all the elements of humanity riding #1 train down under the West Side of Manhattan."

--Walter Mosley (The Long Fall 2009)]

His company spent a lot of time helping its leaders learn what to do, say, how write email, or drive production and profits; however, not enough time was spent helping those same leaders learn what to stop doing. His early mistake was not in governance of his team, but failing to ask the right questions about the company which owned FormCorp. Before he even took the job in New York, he could have delved deeply into its leadership structure and how its centralized nature diluted the power of the divisional CEOs. Like why did the Executive VP working closely with the President & Chairman have the right meddle in his operation? She wasn’t above him on the org chart, but he couldn’t get her out of his business: "that's just not how we do it at FormCorp," was the mantra; but he believed that without freedom and creativity, collaboration looks like conformity.

His ability to change or even accommodate the executive leadership team of FormCorp’s parent company was slight in the first year of his tenure; and yet business practices they couldn’t stop doing would be the harbinger of his end, even though three years later. This may seem as minutiae out of a MBA class; but power struggles are as old as time; and it came down to that.

Taking a risky leap exposes one to all sorts of danger and timing is everything.

He’d heard those bromides forever, but their truth hung on every word of the songs Chris Martin sang this lonely evening. His family had moved back to California already, giving him time to close up his tenure at FormCorp and exit the city. All the “what-ifs” had been tumbling around in his mind for weeks, as the end approached; he’d even considered taking some time off to consider resurgence--staying in the position but taking a different approach. Ultimately, it was the permanent finality of this trip out of town making him feel so broken, ancient, and sad--and gone.

 “It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young.” ― Joan Didion, from Slouching Towards Bethlehem  

Stuck in traffic on Fifth Avenue, listening to Coldplay’s transparent, very personal CD, “Ghost Stories,” he recognized that his sorrow was different than Chris Martin; but they both carried bruised and tattered hearts. The melancholy of the fourth song, “True Love” played as a soundtrack to his grieving; lament reflecting back off the tall glass towers peering over the Park. Going to the airport on his last trip out of town lifted the burden of his corporate battle against dysfunction; even though physically, he slumped down, hidden in the dark leather seat like it was a cave. His sentiment was mournful, even weeping, like Jonny Buckland's ethereal guitar solo toward the end of the track. She couldn't look him in the eye as she left, that was the worst of it.

Darkness engulfed like none before. A long, successful run in this business made him to this point unaware of the pain of rejection or the agony of defeat. He saw his underlings and some friends endure disaster before, and subconsciously, he probably knew that renewed growth would come out of this day; yet on this drive none of that coalesced in his mind. For a while he was in control, but he lost it. He sobbed. Unbelieving, agonizing with regret. The song was about a pain too great to face:

"Tell me you love me, New York; if you don't, then lie. It can’t be over. Lie to me."

(end)

#Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)
©Coldplay 6th album "Ghost Stories" rel. by Atlantic Records in N Am. on 05/19/2014

Code Yellow

Coldplay Yellow Live Glastonbury 2002 - YouTube:

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Code: Yellow

The evening hours passed quietly aboard the USS John C. Stennis, sort of like a middle-school slumber party, but not really. Instead of nail-polish and text-messages, men wrote hand-written letters on thick-cotton stationery and studied the Naval intelligence maps of Iranian air bases and nuclear facilities. The young pilots were part of a powerful, strike-force flotilla cruising the claustrophobic waters of the Strait of Hormuz, on the southern coast of Iran, the world’s busiest oil-shipping lane. The boys of the Persian Gulf: fighter jocks taking it easy in a rec room on a lazy Friday night in April.

Squadron commander, Lieutenant Harrington was almost oversized for the cockpit. The big Texan carried himself casually, even sauntering when there was room above deck. His sad eyes and perfectly cropped Naval hair gleamed against the perpetually tan face and neck of a professional pilot. His correspondence home always on bone-colored, embossed Crane stationery, a habit leftover from his traditional southern mother in Dallas. The lieutenant’s natural leadership centered upon a social intelligence based on close relationships not only with his WSOs but all the flying teams in his unit. He treated every pilot like his brother; frequently he could be found holed-up next to a colleague discussing business in the close quarters of a aircraft carrier, but with the tenderness and quiet of a counselor. Knowing every teammate intimately, including talents and weaknesses in flying ability and personality allowed him the kind of access and respect few commanders garnered in today’s Navy.

I am merely a NFO, Lt. Junior Grade. The NFO is the back-seat partner to the pilot, formerly known as the Naval Flight Officer. The modern Navy NFO position has naturally become more complicated. Back seat of a fully equipped and upgraded F-18 Super Hornet, the NFO is now called the WSO (“weapons system operator”) because of the stunning array of assault options it carries. More than a navigator, I am the lieutenant’s little brother who brings all the booze to the party. He gets me to the target and I equip him with more firepower than the most of the small armies of the world combined. As we internalize through years of training, nothing I do is unimportant or routine. Without a talented WSO, the pilot is a gifted aviator flying on gilded wings, but with no talons. Weapons after all, are what we do. The Hornet has half a dozen Raytheon® missile systems which allow precision strike capability in enough configurations to make your mind numb. Each plane is an air-to-ground and air-to-air aggressor; like a flying army of guns and bombs.

A calm Friday evening of “watch-duty” with quiet activity, soft music, and standard recreation in the briefing room, turned in just ten minutes into a beehive of preparation, determination, and steely readiness for battle? The simple phrases of a love-letter and a song transform into the rote instructions of a wing commander quickly organizing his squadron for deadly serious work.

The squadron commander made an unusual decision during what were called publicly “training exercises,” a move they called, “All-in.” Every fighter jet on the carrier would be up and active tonight, prowling the skies. At least once during a long cruise, protocol required that this exercise take place because someday during a real shootout, the battle group might just have to use all assets to win. This was the most dangerous night of their deployment, but it was also the most realistic.

All assets on the ship were scrambled; every crew activated and every pilot manned a stick. The launch process was grueling and dangerous in any scenario, but a night launch was always a little more stressful. Tonight’s “All-in” gambit assured the ship that until all the planes were safely back on deck, every crew member would sweat out the once placid evening. The lieutenant was no Jimmy Doolittle, but this was a major-league decision given the circumstances in the Persian Gulf, even the fuel tankers would circle the landing pattern until all fighter jets returned. Tankers too would have to “call the ball” of the landing system used on the USS John C. Stennis.

The squadron’s enemies were not so much Iran’s aging fleet of F-14 Tomcats based out of Isfahan, but the lack of fuel and light which hampered the performance of these aviators more than the paltry resistance of the Iranian military. Most naval aviators learned the carrier game on high-end Tomcats, or their instructors taught them about Tomcats early in their career. Not like the movie Top Gun anymore; an improved Super-Hornet skins a Tomcat every time, but a cloudy approach was the wickedest fight of all.

With a diplomatic meeting during the coming weekend in Istanbul, the United States and Iran are supposedly going to peacefully negotiate over Iran’s fledgling nuclear program; however, at the same time U.S. Naval presence in the Gulf reinforces the physical strength our diplomats wish to portray while they talk. Unfortunately, such “ancillary” transactional communications usually don’t create much traction, because they are impersonal and shallow; they may not drive someone away, but they don’t draw the other party closer either.

Military personnel worry about Iran’s capability to wage “asymmetrical warfare” by mining the narrow passageway called the Strait of Hormuz or by swarming U.S. vessels with small boats armed with a single missile. This type of guerrilla fighting accentuates the standard threats of Iran’s three Kilo-class submarines, or the mini-subs they bought from North Korea. Iran can launch short-range and long-range missiles, both from the ground, and from an aging fleet of aircraft. The only thing certain in the Persian Gulf is that the Iranian military threat is unusual and unpredictable.

“Saddle-up, Mark,” the commander squawked as he grabbed his parachute pack and Velcroed® his flight log book to his thigh. Tonight, I was Lt. Harrington’s WSO, which meant I was the lucky sap who would play night watchman for the entire staff during this squirmy “All-in” game that the Lt. had just called out.

“Everyone up tonight, boys,” he said gleefully as he strode up to the front of the briefing room, the back entrance of the conference area already crowded with the entire squadron. “C’mon, let’s get quiet,” he added, “I want the last plane up by twenty-two hundred, so listen up, I only have five minutes to talk to you guys.” 

Lt. Harrington smiled out with wattage that outstripped the dull fluorescent bulbs in the meeting room, beaming with the dangerous look of "we are all in on this one together!"

“I realize this is just an exercise, you guys know that we have to do one ‘all-in’ per cruise; but tonight a little birdie told me that the big bad Eye-Rainian air-force may be up there ‘practicing’ as well.”

You guys ready fo dat? He held in his hand a small, letter-sized Manila file folder with a bright yellow tab clearly visible even from the back of the room. They all knew what Code Yellow meant.

Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part II: Heartbreak Hotel: Snake-eyes (The Shelby Austin series)

Heartbreak Hotel:  Snake-Eyes

Shelby Austin series Part II

“Make sure the elevator is locked dude, this one has serious shock-value,” the Detective reminded his assistant, “there are 800 people down at Clive’s party that would fall out if they heard about this!”

“And check everyone’s smart phones as they leave, by the way; I don’t want anyone in here selling us out to TMZ.” LA paparazzi would give their first-born children for salacious pictures of the great Shelby Austin sprawled out naked in her bathroom, dead.

“There’s not much to photograph here Mike, no note, or blood, far as I can tell,” said the Detective.

“She looks fine to me, no blunt force trauma or signs of foul-play.” He was talking through the scenario in his mind as much as lecturing his assistant Michael Donnelly. The Detective was a Beverly Hills Cop, but he knew the signs of nefarious acts as sure as any LAPD Detective from Sunset, or Van Nuys.

The pill bottles were ominous, he thought, and there was booze all around the expansive suite on the fourth floor of the Beverly Hilton, the host hotel of the largest pre-Grammy® party in Los Angeles.

The starlet hit her prime just as police officer Michael Donnelly was born in 1985, he had very little knowledge of the sheer wattage provided by Shelby Austin, the preeminent icon of 80s and 90s pop music.

“She dreamed of para, para, para-dise,” he hummed as he inventoried the room; Michael pondered how sad it was that another Hollywood pillar had broken and crumbled; his point of reference musically, the Coldplay song, “Paradise,” was about a similar young woman whose expectations were out of reach and so she flew away from her dreams.

“This Xanax® bottle needs to be tagged and tested by the ME,” the Detective pointed as he directed Michael his assistant, “remember the socialite who swallowed a bunch of these and chased them down with half a bottle of Skye last month?”

“That sh*t is smooth, Detective,” Donnelly replied enthusiastically,” other than the burn, it tastes like water; it’s carbon-filtered five times, I wish the LA water system was that good!”

Taking Xanax® and booze is like doubling down on the central nervous system, depressing the brain to the point where sometimes breathing stops. Combining alcohol with Alprazolam is never safe. The drinker never knows how much would prove fatal if mixed with the anti-anxiety drug. The alcohol takes away judgment, making one feel good but not thinking normally; tragically, 40 and 50 year olds are more likely to die from an accidental drug overdose than adolescents.

“Didn’t Mrs. Austin-Green sell like millions of records? Michael asked.

“Ms. Austin is divorced from that asshole, Michael, besides, she is known as “Shelby” in the business. He is probably downstairs right now chasing his next girlfriend,” referring to the bad-boy ex-husband Gerri Green who introduced Shelby to this destructive lifestyle.

“Remind me to check out her financial records and insurance, make sure no one was heavily “invested” in her passing.” The Detective added cynically, “street cred is that she is hurting big time, hadn’t had a good payday in a decade. Gerri Green nicked her good in the split.” He followed the tabloids like some cops read Sports Illustrated.

“If it ain’t suicide and murder looks improbable, do you think she died by accident? Michael asked the Detective.

“Time stands still on that junk Michael, it’s like people who believe that the most expensive thing has to be the best you can buy,” he said ruefully, “just one more pill and I will feel alright, one more drink will wash away the pain.”

As a ship off course a few degrees will ultimately go miles from its destination, Shelby Austin spent a decade drifting from her innocent roots and girlish fame. She was now a hardened Hollywood warrior, in and out of rehab, lost in a fog of forgotten fame. Probably sensing fear, regret, and nostalgia as she anticipated performing at the Grammy® awards tonight, she suffered heightened anxiety (Xanax®), and  clouded judgment (alcohol), self-medicating en route to the stage.

The Detective declared out loud, “She was way past the point of no return, been there for years.  Might be the dice came up snake-eyes this time?” Michael Donnelly was gazing upon the doorway to the suite’s massive bathroom, not hearing, but there was a light shining out of the darkness.

Fiction posted 02/15/2012

©Mark H. Pillsbury 

bono and chris martin - what's going on - YouTube

bono and chris martin - what's going on - YouTube:

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U2 and Coldplay have a sibling rivalry going on...

I know from growing up in a family of brothers, things are said about each other often that one wishes one could take back. As Coldplay rises to the top of the charts, Bono has said derogatory things about musical brother Chris Martin. Both groups keep a keen eye on each other and even use the same producer, Brian Eno. As it sounds confusing talking on the phone to some brothers, each band sounds like the other on some of their recent songs. Listen to "No Line on the Horizon" [U2] and "Mylo Xyloto" [Coldplay] on separate nights and the similarities are obvious.

I've seen both groups live, one in the Rose Bowl and one at the Woodlands' pavilion. Listening to the recent albums side-by-side, there is no clear winner. Neither group conquerors the other; indeed, their kinship is almost endearing, their talent cut out of the same clothe. U2 and Coldplay work on the same side of the street. Their DNA is so close, their audience so similar; the differences are infinitesimal.

Coming from a family of brothers makes me happy to see these British rock-n-roll brothers sync up so flawlessly. Any differences are humorous, tensions illusory. Musically the space between the two super-groups is minor, the talent immense. May they long live in harmony and unison despite the huge egos inherent in this business. Following these groups is like knowing that eccentric band of brothers that everyone wants to party with, but no one wants to choose between. It comes down to taste or mood. I love them both.

Twitter:

@_U2_

@coldplay
@markpills

(c) Mark H. Pillsbury

[dear YouTube: the use of the link or any other copyrighted material from U2 or Coldplay is legal under the "fair use doctrine" and is not an infringement of copyright laws, per 17 U.S.C. 107]