Coldplay in Miami as Reviewed by Gwyneth Paltrow's Goop Newsletter, June 29

Photo by Sayre Berman

Coldplay's Chris Martin, AKA Mr. Gwyneth Paltrow.

See the full 36-photo slide show of Coldplay at American Airlines Arena.

Coldplay
With Robyn and Wolf Gang
American Airlines Arena
June 29, 2012

Better Than: The feeling you get from four hours of hot yoga and a good leeching

I first learned of Coldplay two years ago while foraging for burgundy truffles with my good friend Robert Mugabe. My lagatto romagnolo dogs, Thierry and Bechamel, were nosing about when Robert began singing.

"Oooooo! Ooooo-oooohh!"

Something about those words really connected with me, and I asked him if it was traditional music from Zimbabwe, a country whose name I pronounce the correct way. Robert is a close family friend, and I used to spend part of my summers in his country, reconnecting with the earth and trading dieting tips with the locals.

"No, Gwyneth," Robert said. "It is a band from your country, England. They are Coldplay."

Photo by Sayre Berman

The truffles the dogs were finding were not large enough for the pigs-in-a-blanket we had planned. So to pass the time, I asked him to sing me another song by this Coldplay.

"Ooooh-ooooh! Aaaaaah-aaah!"

These words would give me strength when I needed it most, namely in international departure lounges when you have dry skin and no access to a humidifier and six ounces of ginger root. To this day, when world-leader friends ask me for advice, I will put a hand on their shoulder and say, "Ooooh-oh-oh. Oh-ohhhh."

Robert then took out his iPhone (which he keeps in a case designed to look like a little leather-bound book -- absolutely essential) and showed me a picture of the singer on his Pinterest page.

Photo by Sayre Berman

I remember thinking he looked very familiar. I'd seen this man around the house for several years, mostly looking after my children and leaving fingerprints on the piano keys. He was, I had assumed, there to polish the wainscoting. He had first caught my eye when I wondered why a man so tall would get into a business that limits him to dealing with only the lowest few feet of the wall.

A whirlwind romance soon followed, and that brought us last night to the American Airlines Arena in Miami, Florida. That's in the States.

I've come to be a great admirer of Coldplay. I know that my husband and I are frequently mocked by people who think that if something is meaningful to many, it can't be that meaningful at all. Or that if someone knows how you should be doing something better and more expensively than you do, she should keep that a secret. The fact remains that there are few groups that can bring the kind of intimate experience to an arena that Coldplay can. The others -- I'm good friends with them -- but Bono is Irish (ick) and Bruce Springsteen is American (double-ick; or as the French say, "ick doubler").

Photo by Sayre Berman

Christopher was very excited to be in the same sporting arena where the Miami Heat won the NBA Championships only a week earlier. He is a big sports supporter. But also he knows that in Miami, the locals call me Heat. I was very touched to see everyone welcoming me back to town with shirts and banners, some in English (which we speak in England) and Spanish (which we speak in Spain).

After playing some of the opening theme to the Superman films, the band walked out with the trademark English humility, going straight into "Hurts Like Heaven." During the song, Christopher threw his whole body into playing the guitar, lunging with each strum for an added calorie burn. He shouted, "Is there anybody out there? Miami, basketball champions of the world, is anybody out there?"

Delerious cheers were out there. And we could see them all, given the special Xylobands created for the current world tour and handed to each audience member upon entry. The bracelets light up in various sequences when controlled by the band's radio signals, and extended the light show into the crowd. As arms waved, fans danced, or hands clapped, everyone became almost as important a part of the show as I was. Lights twinkled all around us like the reflections on the waters of Santorini. (We keep a modest cottage there for when we must simply clear our heads and get away from our house in Santorini.)

Photo by Sayre Berman

It is easy to forget that most of the sound generated on the stage is the product of just four men, three of whom I hope to meet one day. They stand quite close on stage and if you were to take away the laser rigs and catwalk extending into the center of the arena, their show could be plopped into the Camden dives where they began nearly fifteen years ago. But the arena is where this music is meant to be heard. At this point in their career, a song like "In My Place" would almost feel incomplete if giant confetti cannons did not discharge when Christopher, alone on a platform in the center of the arena threw his hands up and sang, "How long must you wait for it?"

The confetti, by the way, came in neon shapes of comets, butterflies, crowns, and flowers, matching the black-lit graffiti that covered the stage, instruments, and the band's clothing. Though the confetti is a low-calorie snack, it does not taste good. I recommend filling your home confetti cannons with kale chips, baked on a low heat to preserve the vital enzymes.

My husband is a gracious host, frequently thanking his guests. Things like, "Thank you for going through the traffic, the ticket prices, the parking to be here. In return and because you are the basketball fucking champions, we're going to try to put on the best show of our lives." He says some variation of this at all of his shows, but he genuinely means it. Eventually, he will reach a moment where he can no longer top his previous show, at which point I will be forced to step in and front the band. But that day is still a long way off, I hope, because I have a reservation next winter at an ashram.