You just can't hate Chris Martin. Oh, you can find him overrated and his tunes sappy, but aside from the occasional run-in with a photographer, Martin is that rare gentleman rock star with a modest mouth. He married a glamorous Oscar winner, he named his kid Apple, and yet the worst you can say is that he might be the whitest person in rock. With him as the spokesman, Coldplay is U2 without delusions of grandeur, Oasis without the self-destructive streak, Radiohead without the capital-A artistry. Martin's hooks aim for the arena, but his lyrics are a more well-adjusted variation of emo, championing decency and prettiness. To detest his love songs is to deny that part of you who grew up on cheesy radio ballads back when you weren't "cool" enough to know better. And in that fine tradition, c'mon, doesn't "The Scientist" get you every time?