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?

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#FanFiction (2016) ©Mark H. Pillsbury

Ultimate Texans » Photos: Texans fever

Ultimate Texans » Photos: Texans fever:

'via Blog this'

After ten years in this city, the Texan franchise has finally reached the high plateau of the NFL meritocracy, The Playoffs.

Like a contagious disease, Houston's citizens caught fan fever this week, and across the 4th largest city in the US, today they suffer from Texanitis.

As the sun broke over clear blue skies this morning and Houstonians got out to youth games, the grocery store, or the local coffee shop, all the talk was about the game this afternoon at Reliant Stadium, in the shadow of the old AstroDome. Fittingly, the new breed of professional football players see the shrine to the Oilers right next door, the 8th wonder of the world: the AstroDome. The creepy, dark, out-dated, concrete monolith to the past; where the last Houston playoff victory took place over 20 years ago.

There is nothing like the football euphoria of the playoffs. In a town that prides itself in entrepreneurial grit, civic pride, teamwork, courage, and success--which has largely eluded the city on the gridiron since the Texans started ten years ago; this football team overcame years of under-achieving and the hardship of a roller-coaster season to land its first NFL party since Super Bowl XXXVIII was played in Reliant Stadium in February of 2004.

Predictions are bold. Chips and salsa are flying off the shelves. Only the lucky and the patient are actually going to the game. Traffic around my neighborhood will be terrible this afternoon. But the city is buoyant with excitement. Being a life-long Dallas Cowboy fan spoiled me, but not anymore! The Cowboys are no shoe-in, having one playoff win in the last 15 years. Since I arrived in Houston the fall the Texans started, I have followed them closely every year and could not be any happier to see them succeed. Like any of the millions of Houston transplants who want our team to do well, I'm riding high today, waiting for kickoff.

used with permission: ©K. Woolet 

It should be a low-scoring affair, and with our 3rd QB starting the game, the Texans will have to rely on the Defense (led by the last Cowboy coach Wade Phillips). Turnovers usually change momentum, so look for that to be the pivot-point.

The buzz in the city today is red-hot (Battle Red), the fever is true-blue (Liberty Blue), and for one bright shiny day in Houston, we are all Texans!

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Baseball, hot dogs, and 4th of July

Houston Sports Review (July 4th)

This is a sports town. Houstonians' love for its teams runs deep; from luv ‘ya Blue in the 80s to back-to-back Rocket world championships in the 90s. The Astros found the finals last time, appearing in the 2005 World Series; however the teams, like the state are surviving a prolonged drought. I moved to Houston when the Texans opened their franchise in 2002, so I especially pull for them, yet mediocrity plagues the club a decade later. The current state of sports in Houston is as malevolent as the weather. Both Rice and UofH fail to add a much needed intercollegiate spark.

The Astros, just taken off the sales block, are far enough from .500 they reside in another zip code. The Texans never reach their potential, their affable coach unable to rouse the winning tradition of Oilers football last inspired by Bum Phillips, when he said, "Dallas Cowboys may be America's team, but the Houston Oilers are Texas' team." The Rockets invest their global dreams in the broken-down feet of a gentle giant, Yao Ming; who is great as a “branding” icon, but cannot play enough games to impact the western division.

Few major cities watch such disarray in the professional ranks. Sports venues, updated in the 90s, provide modern environments for the spectators here, with posh luxury boxes and air-conditioned comfort in which to observe lackadaisical play. Fewer fans commit to pay the heavy ticket prices in exchange for continual disappointment, because entertainment dollars are scarce even in an economy fueled by windfall energy profits. Besides, what is there to “cheer” for?!

Professional sports run like a business, however, they exist in the public sphere. Right now, labor struggles between employees and management obscure the customer service fans deserve. Greed, power, leverage, collective bargaining, and timing cause bigger issues to rise above general concern for fan feedback. Otherwise, the NFL would be readying for camp, and the NBA would not be changing the locks on their players’ lockers.

Baseball has settled its labor strife, recovering from their [PED] scandal, but still has a glaring problem with one of its most esteemed franchises the LA Dodgers, formerly of Brooklyn. Allowing Frank McCourt to leverage most of the $430 mil. purchase price in 2004 in order to become a member of the exclusive owner club might have been typical of the debt bubble wall street just foisted on financial institutions; however, now seems to be one of the worst management decisions in the league’s long history.

Having the storied Dodgers in bankruptcy court is the sad opposite of the pride brought to this country when the Dodgers’ Branch Rickey broke the MLB color-line by promoting Jackie Robinson to the big league club in 1947. It was a move that Jackie personified when he often “stole-home,” streaking toward the prize with reckless abandon, not worrying about the consequences of such risk. Trouble is, Frank McCourt is no Jackie Robinson.

photo credit: R. Morse