"On the Road" with the Band

So it’s all about band jackets now, as evidenced by this sweet little Balmain number to the right.

I rocked my band jacket in the 1980s, one found in a vintage shop: black, cropped, fitted with two rows of snazzy silvertone buttons, tender buttons, thankyouverymuch, Ms. Stein. I wore it with my Guess jeans, Marilyn length, zipper at the ankle, while dancing to whatever New Order was putting out.

Later on I saw New Order in concert, which was a sad affair, in a hotel ballroom in Ottawa. The group looked pretty bummed to be there, because a hotel ballroom in Ottawa—really!—and they scorned their audience, playing a hostile version of “Bizarre Love Triangle” before stomping off the tiny stage early.

But now Chris Martin, Mr. Coldplay Leadsinger, is bringing back the New Order sound, though in a jauntier manner, and he’s wearing his military/band jacket too.

Happier than Adam Ant,

definitely sunnier than New Order, Martin played the MTV something Awards a few months back, and as soon as the opening chords of the synthesizer started pumping, I knew I was home. His song “Viva la Vida” takes me right back to the eighties, its New Order-esque groove thumping out an irresistible call to the dance floor, Martin’s foot, encased in a skinny boot, beat, beat, beating out the rhythm à la any eighties bootleg import star worth his black jeans.

And so it was yesterday, driving to pick up my children from school: I found a “Viva la Vida” CD in my car, popped it in my machine, and zoomed down the empty highway. As the synthesizer took over, giving way to a swell of strings, I was returned to a smoky, dark club, where the music played till 3 a.m. I was in black leggings, some sort of tunic-y shift dress, and hit the zone while Martin and his boys “ruled the world,” a flurry of red petals descending upon him, one perching on his forehead while he, oblivious, kept pumping the lyrics and thumping his foot and I, I too pumped on the gas pedal while in a dancing daze of red and black and—what’s this?—a persistent blue, blue, blue invading my scene. So I pulled over and Chris Martin’s still wailing and I’m caught up in his sound and my left foot’s pumping now and I can scarcely unwind the window to greet the copper, who, standing there with his shiny badge and shiny sunglasses doesn’t look in the mood for a dance, but what can he do? He catches the groove and if I squint really hard, I could swear that his shiny badge multiplies into rows of tender buttons.