It augured well for love: Coldplay received a rapturous reception and then, in the middle of U2's set, Bono segued into a few admiring bars of Yellow. The Irish roared. Admiring Bambi eyes turned Martin's way.

"Fame is bullshit," he says today. "But that was a moment where even I thought, You lucky bastard. Enjoy it!"
Martin declines to say how the relationship developed afterwards, though we may guess from the rueful floorward glance and the observation, "Actually, I behaved like a twat", that it wasn't all it might have been.

Yet, in away, it was a perfectly satisfactory Coldplay evening. For in order to make new Coldplay album 'A Rush Of Blood To The Head' the rollicking collection of regret, sorrow and paranoia that it is, Martin says he maintains three constants in his life: 1) a turbulent relationship with women, 2) a fear that he might soon die, and 3) a preoccupation with hair loss. The evening at Slane Castle clearly provided fresh material on 1) but also heartening news on item 3), he notes. "I'm 25 and I'm really worried I'll be bald by next year. But someone famous, someone who knows, told me Bono's had a hair transplant. Can you believe it? Bono? Some of those tufts have been stitched in. So there's hope for me yet."

Q meets Martin, bassist Guy Berryman, guitarist Jonathan Buckland and drummer Will Champion in a North London photo studio. With an album's worth of "the best music we've ever written", not to mention reassuring "Bono's syrup" news, the mood is decidedly up. For Berryman, Buckland and Champion this means they smoke cigarettes and mumble amiably. For Martin it means he zings round the room like a child buzzing on too many food additives.

"I'm excited. There's so much to tell you. But I'm nervous too. What if I fuck it up?"he muses before approaching to inspect Q's hairline. , "I'm worried mine's going. And worrying makes it go quicker!" he trills.

Martin admits to being nervous around journalists and from one moment to another can be guarded and extravagantly entertaining.

Martin admits to being nervous around journalists and from one moment to another can be guarded and extravagantly entertaining. "How can I be normal with you watching?" he asks before deciding he won't be and launching into a barrage of Alan Partridge-style jokes and indiscretions. "We're not Travis, OK? We've just been doing horse off a hooker's back," he deadpans before archly narrowing an eyelid. "I'm incredibly excited by what we've done," he beams later. "The danger was we'd make a half- arsed, shitty, bargain bin, average follow-up record with songs not half as good as Yellow. I'm not interested in, Here are some off-cuts of the first album and I've got loads of money and coke and I'm in OK! magazine. That's bullshit." "Yeah. That's our next album," says Buckland, looking up from his evening paper.

A Rush Of Blood To The Head is all the more eagerly expected because it almost never happened at all.
"After we'd recorded Parachutes we had one song left -In My Place," recalls Martin. " Apart from that I was dry. And I thought, That's it, we're done. But when Jonny played me the guitar for In My Place I thought, Well, we have to record that. It's the best thing we've ever written. And that was the song that saved us." It's been worth the wait. On the new album, the intimate, soul baring of Parachutes has evolved into the monumental world jitters of Politik and the menacing darkness of the tide track.

Politik was written on 13 September last year: the day the band were supposed to fly to America.! The portentous clattering of guitars and Martin's falsetto cry of "Open up your eyes!" make it the best, most daring thing the band have recorded. Meanwhile, a new consultative role for Ian McCulloch lends Clocks and Daylight a beautifully stark touch of The Cutter-era Echo & The Bunnymen. And, of course, Martin's anti- Casanova talents mean the relationship autopsies so beloved of Parachutes recur on the lovely Warning Sign, The Scientist and In My Place.

"It's tremendously exciting to be in our band because you hear something you like, learn how to do it and steal it," beams Martin. "It's like stealing cars and welding them together. We've stolen the Bunnymen's cars, The Cure's car, the Stones’car. ..everyone!” Q waits for the disclaiming wink from Martin, but it never comes. Instead, just like last time, he urges the world to make the most of Coldplay while it lasts. "We're empty again now. Drained of ideas. Who knows if we'll do it again?" he says. "I honestly can't tell you where another one would come from," agrees Buckland.

It's barely two years since Coldplay released their debut album, Parachutes. Quickly embraced as a gothic Travis, worthy successors to the guitar territory newly vacated by a weirded-out Radiohead, they have spent a good part of that time threatening to implode. Formed in autumn '96 by Buckland and Martin during their first week of term at London's University College, they recruited bass guitarist Berryman after he confronted them in a student bar and demanded to be in their band ("We couldn't really say no:' says Buckland.) Early influences were resolutely un-cool: Sting and Simon & Garfunkel. Even so, they'd soon written 10 songs, including an early prototype of Don't Panic, while recruiting a drummer.

"We knew of a good drummer” remembers Berryman. “We played him Panic and he said, No. We just couldn't believe it. Even then there was a feeling of, But what we're doing is great. Why wouldn't you want to be part of it?"

Will Champion was in the UCL hockey team with Martin. Champion suggested his roommate as a drummer. At the appointed hour he set up his kit but then went to the pub and didn't return. Champion, an aspiring guitarist, agreed to keep time for the rehearsal and The Coldplay were born. Their name was borrowed from another UCL band who had discarded it. Their first gig at Camden pub ‘The Laurel Tree’ followed soon afterwards. : "There was no Plan B” says Martin. "Meeting Jonny was like falling in love. He could make all the ideas work and we were writing two songs a night sometimes. And I was starting to get more of a musical education; Jeff Buckley and Radiohead.”

Berryman is more circumspect. "We were more than capable of producing shit. But the longer we went on, you could tell Chris had the magic. I'd given up my engineering course because I hated it and started a degree in architecture. I gave that up as well." Initially, the omens weren't great. A&R man Dan Keeling hadn't been working for Parlophone long when he saw the band, now simply Coldplay, at Cairo Jack's, an Egyptian-themed pub in central London in December 1998. "I wasn't really that enamoured:' says Keeling. "I thought Chris had something. He was quite charismatic. But the sound wasn't there”

By March 1999, Keeling had received the Safety EP -500 copies of which had been fund- ed by Martin's old school friend -and now Coldplay's manager - Phil Harvey. "I spent £1500 pressing them up:' says Harvey. The EP contained Bigger Stronger and No More Keeping My Feet On The Ground. The latter impressed Keeling. "It just overwhelmed me. I wanted to stay cool but I could only hold off calling until Saturday morning. I met Phil, but Chris couldn't come because he was doing his exams."

In the exam room Coldplay performed with smarty-pants ease. Martin got a first in Ancient World Studies; Buckland a 2:1 in Astronomy; Champion a 2:1 in Anthropology. 1999 should have been a summer of excitement, but it almost ended in disaster. Coldplay entered the studio to record their major label debut, The Blue Room EP. Suddenly, overawed by the pressure and consumed by the idea that they must now become "more professional", Chris Martin turned on the band - and on Will Champion in particular.

"Things were going wrong in the studio and I told Will it was his fault," says Martin. "He'd be out of time once and I'd be telling him he was shit." Champion walked out. "It was an awful time. For a week Coldplay didn't exist," continues Martin. " And it was all my fault. I thought to myself, You fucking twat. I was so nervous of us fucking up our chance I'd become obsessed with whether we were a technically good band or not. I apologised, but I felt I had to pay, so I got drunk."

In a strange act of penance, Martin forced himself to drink beer, then vodka and Ribena at Berryman's flat. Berryman left him alone to go and meet his girlfriend, and returned to find Martin begging for mercy in his toilet. "He's not been drunk since' says Berryman. "Chris brings quite enough spice to our lives without alcohol being involved. When his energy is up he's brilliant. Creatively he's great. But when the energy is down, it makes things tough. That was a horrible time which I could never go through again."

But perhaps the crisis was the making of Coldplay. With Champion back on board, it was decided the band would only survive as a fully democratic outfit. Though Martin initiates all the songs and writes the lyrics, it was decided all members would be credited equally and royalties should be split four ways. And if one member left, they would all call it a day. I don't want all the flicking money," spits Martin. "I don't want any more than the others. Do I really want to spend two weeks in court some way down the line arguing with my closest mates about who wrote what? Not all bands work that way and I've got into arguments with some about it. But going through that experience made me realise that our chemistry is special. I can't do it without them - all of them - and vice versa."

It also meant that Martin’s evangelical leadership was toned down. A band rule dictating that anyone doing cocaine would be sacked was also downgraded. "We're not a druggy band," says Berryman. "But basically there was a time when Chris was following Thorn Yorke very closely and he read something he said and suddenly it was, If anyone does coke they're out." "The cocaine thing is less strict now," says Martin. "That was me. I was being sensationalist. I just get these passions about things."

Though their internal rift was solved, the fledgling band was still learning to deal with outsiders. Dan Keeling had booked Coldplay into Rockfield Studios in Wales to record Shiver. Confident they could organise themselves he was shocked when the first demo arrived at his desk in London.

"It didn't have any of their passion, their energy. It was just limp. I drove straight down to Wales and had a very tense meeting. Chris didn't like what we had to say, which was basically; Do it again. They're a close unit and they don't like people sticking their noses in." To this day however, Coldplay remain a far more fractious group than you'd expect. They're clearly close - Martin and Buckland especially -but they're frank about the debates over the new album. Berryman still doesn't like the folky Green Eyes and Champion has been even harder to please when it comes to new material. "Will's the one I have to impress," smiles Martin. "If he goes, Ugh, then I have to acknowledge it's no good. That's one of my great hobbies in life. ..trying to convince Will that my songs are any good."

On the release of Parachutes in July 2000, Keeling believed sales of 40,000 would prove a respectable platform from which to build on his relatively modest investment. The album sold five million copies and Coldplay found themselves woozy with the sudden altitude of fame.

"I hate bands who moan, but there was no learning curve. It was a vertical gradient," says Berryman. "I can remember meeting Sylvester Stallone in LA because he wanted to use Trouble on the sound track for his film," adds Buckland. "We said no, but we were a student band being back-slapped by Sylvester Stallone. We thought, How the fuck did we get here?" In February 2001, with thoughts turning to a new album, Coldplay felt they could just about fit in another crisis. On tour in America, Martin lost his voice and the rest of the band succumbed to 'flu. Again they decided they'd had enough.

"We were fucking desperate," says Martin. "It just felt wrong. We had to decide whether we were a bunch of students who got lucky or were we going to admit that we are really fucking good? Actually it was me. Was I going to admit we are one of the best bands in the world? I thought, I might die at any moment and I've been given this amazing opportunity with my best friends. And at that point we were doing ridiculous things - hanging out with U2 -and I thought, I wouldn't want to be in U2, I am actually already in one of the best bands in the world." Buckland had a suggestion: why didn't Martin stop apologising to people, audiences in particular, about not being good enough? "That's the riddle” says Martin. "I think I'm crap, which drives me. But I also think we're brilliant. Once we'd decided we had the chance of a lifetime we worked harder than we ever have in our lives."

With the work done Coldplay are enjoying a brief lull. Q is invited to watch the Argentina vs. England World Cup game with them in a suite at The Leonard Hotel near London's Hyde Park. Room 14 benefits from high ceilings, fine cornicing and teak furnishings: an ideal setting for board meetings or shouting at a television. Band, crew and two beautiful American females currently staying with Martin have joined us. One of the women used to work on the influential us TV show Saturday Night Live and has been in touch with the singer since Coldplay were guests last year. However, it is Buckland who has become close to her during the visit.

Expectantly arrayed on a sofa at kick-off, Coldplay look a bit like a University Challenge team. The whistle blows and they enthusiastically clap positive England moves. But as the game gathers pace and the beer flows, Champion reveals an inner laddishness -backing defender Wayne Bridge (from Champion's native Southampton) with cries of "Bridgey!" But Chris Martin seems fretful during the game: moving from sofa to floor to a chair by the window. When England defend their 1-0 lead during the last fraught 15 minutes, there is loose talk from Berryman of "the next round". Martin sounds charged with frustration when he says: "You're talking it up. Don't talk it up! It might not happen!" "God! Calm down, Chris;' says his American pal, eyes rolling. When England win, there's a champagne toast. Martin sips an orange juice in lonely abstinence. "I just don't like what drink does to me" he says.”Sorry if I seem grumpy."

An hour later Q is chatting to Berryman next door. Martin enters the room boggle-eyed with excitement and says, "Do you wanna go to Iceland? Let's go!" It turns out Buckland also has a girlfriend in Reykjavik and Martin's puppyish enthusiasm has become focused on a surprise visit. But first he sets ground rules for Q: "Please use your discretion. There is a strong possibility I will act like an utter twat." Sadly, Q never learns what this might mean. The flights are full and Martin's mood sours. "If we just sit down and do an interview we'll do public school, Yellow, paranoia and my hair- and that's it. We should do something active." He suggests Alton Towers, Chessington World Of Adventures, his 15-year-old brother's school sports day in Bath and, finally, kite-flying. "I've got two good ones. It's terrific fun."

On a grey Saturday lunchtime the new Belsize Park home of Chris Martin resounds to Echo & The Bunnymen's Nothing Ever Lasts Forever. Tomorrow he'll sing the song with the band's Ian McCulloch at a show in London's Finsbury Park. Having clinched the harmonies, Martin takes a break and walks Q to a cafe. He frets about being late, about being nervous and the mental list of important things he wants to say. These turn out to be l) he thinks The Streets album is brilliant and 2) imminent death and hair loss are not unreasonable neuroses because "I might well die and I will certainly lose my hair". Such concerns are he admits "reverse rock'n'roll".

But despite the nerves and apologies, there is a concealed steeliness. At times he can sound like Prince Philip bearing down on a line of workers during a visit to a cake factory. "Have you worked there terribly long?" he asks Q with a distinct clip in his voice. But general1y he sounds reconstructed by his "'rock" environment :"Radiohead, man! They are just so fucking on it!” He exclaims.

Martin is clearly a regular at the cafe. A French waiter recognises him and makes operatic arrangements for us to have a quiet table. People glance but don't approach. "I do enjoy getting asked for autographs," says Martin. "I mig4t try and act cool but it does feel good. People's enthusiasm gives me a real buzz" And so, after ordering us two of his favourite vanilla milkshakes, he sets about unraveling his unlikely rock star apprenticeship.

The eldest child of a chartered accountant and teacher, Martin formed his first band at prep school before going to Sherborne public school. Here he met 'future manager Phil Harvey when he was 14 and together they expressed their love of music by buying U2's Zooropa. His life at Sherborne sounds by turns idyllic and terrifying. On the one hand there were encouraging teachers and time and space to write music. On the other hand Martin spent his early teens concealing a fear that he might be gay.

"You hide your vulnerabilities aged 14 because people will use them against you. And being gay at public school is all you'd imagine it to be -a fucking nightmare. I was 16 when I finally felt confident I wasn’t. But the homophobia can be pretty intense."

At this stage, becoming a rock star was the furthest thing from his mind. Especially after a performance by his next band, The Rockin’ Honkies, was met with open derision and Martin was booed off stage. "The boys could be mean," recalls Phil Harvey. “And there was an attitude from teachers that Sherbornians shouldn't get involved in the pop music business"

However, two things changed his life. The first was an encouraging music teacher called Mr Skinner who approved of pop music. Second was the emergence of Radiohead. "Radiohead gave me hope," says Martin. "They were the band who gave me permission. I'm a public schoolboy from Devon and I'm not supposed to be in a band. Well they proved I could. I thought, I'm a bit like them. Jonny was OK because he's northern and so is Guy. I hate apologising because as far as I'm concerned it was a privilege to have an amazing education. I had some incredible teachers, great facilities. What a privilege! But so what? Does anyone give a shit?"

Clearly some people do, and it irks. Along with Travis and Starsailor, Coldplay are often cited as infidel careerists in the unofficial rock wars. Former Creation Records mogul Alan McGee famously derided Coldplay as "bedwetters" - middle class, sensitive and lacking in essential attitude. By contrast The Strokes, The Hives et al are touted as real punky rebels who "mean it". Martin is not convinced.

"Julian Casablancas is as much a geek as me!" he exclaims. "OK, he's a better-looking geek, but he's a geek! And you know what? I would like to shake Alan McGee by the hand. Quite right of him to give us a kick up the arse. I say, Bring it on, because it makes me think, I'll show you. It's like Rocky IV: Alan McGee to me is like Drago in Rocky IV: He's trying to hurt me so I go away and train like a monkey and do incredible press- ups and listen to loads of music and write songs that are better than The Hives. And then I'll say to Alan McGee, Thanks a lot, man, "I don't like feeling inferior to anyone, so there are loads of Dragos -Thom Yorke's one. I don't wanna feel there's a guy out there who's better than me. I'm treading dangerously close to saying something really stupid but. ..he and McGee drive me. Anyway, the Gallaghers said to me, Don't worry 'bout fookin' McGee. We like ya. And if McGee doesn't like the new album then we really are shit."

"We aren't that nice;' Buckland told Q earlier. "But it pisses me off that it's such a terrible thing to be. We can be arseholes but most of the time we're alright. On balance I'd take nice over being called a cunt any day."

Chris Martin's upbringing is less interesting for spurious reasons of credibility and more because you can hear his personal conflicts in Coldplay's music. As well as the all-male hot-housing of Sherborne, Martin grew up around his mother's strong Christian faith. He didn't inherit it wholesale, but his doubts and conflicts about love and life underpin his band's best moments.

"There's a dichotomy between the wannabe rock star in me and the son of my mother," he says. "I think girls are amazing but I also feel really guilty about doing stuff with someone that you don't really like. I don't believe there is such a thing as casual sex. Someone always gets hurt. And I hate that feeling. One thing about girls is that I get scared. I get scared of my feelings being in the hands of another person. I know that feeling of waiting for a girl to call. That's scary. "My mum always said to me she doesn't believe in sleeping with people before marriage. She's not being prissy. She's very rock'n'roll- it means doing what you feel and damn everyone else - and she reckons waiting and committing leads to great sex. I didn't agree entirely, but I haven't slept with many people. I didn't lose my virginity until two years ago. If l was good with women I'd go and enjoy it. But also I'm obsessed with the band, so I refuse to commit to a relationship. ..I'm an ambitious little tosser."

He insists a little too strongly that "being a twat" has held him back. Apart from Imbruglia there was a widely publicised flirtation with Nelly Furtado, though Martin now says he's not sure if they are "still mates". Whoever his last lover was, their demise is portrayed on the mournful track The Scientist - an agonised goodbye to his lost love. But what's most extraordinary is that the romantic self- flagellation which drives Martin 's songwriting is intentional, even planned.

"I know I'm going to get shit for saying this," he says, "but, yeah, I don't want to be too happy. To write I have to feel slightly sorry for myself. You have to be in a slightly self-obsessed state of mind and sit at a piano for six hours and not worry about meeting someone for a date. My best songs come when I have that feeling that I've left the party early. And the other reason our songs are all about struggling and worrying and being beleaguered is my dad. He's a terrible worrier. He's always after the next thing. And I am too. Luckily the other members are more relaxed. Three other members like me and we'd go nuts."

With a higher profile, the conflicts are more profound. Martin seems torn between what he could easily enjoy as a young millionaire rock star and a sense of Higher Purpose as embodied by the likes of such politicised figureheads as Bono and Thom Yorke. He says he likes being recognised and signing autographs. He's enjoying doing up his new home three streets down from Finley Quaye and Travis's Dougie Payne. But last night, on the advice of Ash's Tim Wheeler, Martin watched the Sex Pistols documentary The Filth & The Fury and it all began to pall.

"John Lydon completely understood the farcicality of the western world," he says. "The media gloss, the advertising and all that shit. We come up against it, but at the centre of the corporate evil there are four friends. We are all part of this horrible monster and we're trying to deal with success in a way that lets us sleep at night." In the last year, Coldplay have turned down £4 million for the use of their songs in TV advertising. American sports drink Gatorade wanted Yellow, while Diet Coke and Gap have pitched for Trouble and Don't Panic. The band have asked Phil Harvey not to even refer such offers to them because "a discussion might lead to compromise". "We wouldn't be able to live with ourselves if we sold the song's meanings like that," says Martin. "I'm not superhuman. That's money for nothing. But we're not even going to think about it."

Earlier this year he travelled to Haiti to promote the work of Fair Trade, an organisation committed to improving the trading conditions of Third World producers. He was angered by what he saw. Experiences like this have given him a sombre outlook. "Of course it's rock star conscience. I mean, I am loaded! And I love my life! And I'm selfish. I flick through OK! magazine and look at the pretty girls and I worry about my reviews and, yes, it's a cosy, cocooned existence. But I've woken up to the shit underneath. When you realise that there are rules keeping people in poverty because they're not allowed to trade, you wake up.

" And I think, Is it chance? How did I have the luck to be born here and meet Jonny and get signed and get success? I reckon there must be something higher. It feels like it was given to me and that's why I get scared I'll die before we make the most of it." The next day Martin steps onto the stage at Finsbury Park with Ian McCulloch to sing Nothing Ever Lasts Forever- a return favour for McCulloch's backing vocals on parts of the new album. Guy Berryman braves the rain but Buckland has finally left for Reykjavik and Champion is at his girlfriend's birthday party where he will unveill specially written Coldplay song performed for her on video.

After the show Martin invites Q to meet McCulloch in his Spartan Portakabin where Scouse pop royalty are in attendance, which effectively means 24 Hour Party People actor John Simm and Lightning Seed Ian Broudie hovering near a plastic bin of lager. Martin was five years old when, in 1982, Echo & The Bunnymen were in the charts with The Back Of Love. Since meeting during the new Coldplay album sessions in Liverpool, McCulloch has become a mentor to the younger musicians. "I did the vocals to In My Place wearing Mac's coat and with him sitting next to me in the booth,” says Martin.

Performing with him today was more difficult, though. "I felt like the little boy at the school disco not knowing what to do” he adds. "I mean, you can't try and upstage him can you?"

McCulloch, though "bevvied", manages a fulsome tribute to the band he "would most like to be in today". "He's got it. I want to hate them but they're so good. He's too much of a perfectionist. He should relax. I never enjoyed that level of success and I think they should just try and enjoy it”.

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