He walks like Liam, talks like Ashcroft, testifies like Bono and - who'd have thought it? - struts like Tina Turner. Anyone who's ever doubted that Chris Martin has what it takes to be a real dyed-in-the-leather rock star should prepare to be amazed. For under that shambling, nice-young-man exterior currently folded on a chair in a Belfast hotel foyer, the 23-year-old pop choirboy is ringmaster to his own personal rock circus. 
"I met Noel Gallagher the other week," he explains. "I was being all cool when really I wanted to tell him that a week earlier I was dancing round my living room pretending to be Liam. Which is great therapy - pretending to be Liam Gallagher is good for you. Like, four years ago I used to pretend to be Gary Stringer. 'Put your hands on'" he nods. "Just the first line. After that I got a throat ache." At least you're sorted for Celebrity Stars In Their eyes…
He leans forward, suddenly animated: "I tell you who I'd go on as. Bono. In fact, I've been doing my Bono impression so much that I actually found myself doing it in our concert last night. I just hope no one noticed. I was slipping in loads of heavy breathing and stuff that he does. Don't watch for it," he laughs. "I could do Cat Stevens. Or Richard Ashcroft. Axl Rose I can't do, but I've been told I sound like Tina Turner. If my voice doesn't go, I could make a healthy living in tribute bands."
Of course, there are those who say that Coldplay have made an early start. That they represent the triumph of sweet songs and sweet boys, over artistic fire and rock'n'roll ire. That these four unassuming young men disappeared into a cloud of dry ice, Matthew Kelly smiling in the background, and somehow emerged as pop stars. And worst of all - that Coldplay probably aren't in the least bit perturbed by any of that.
The singer twist round in his chair and looks out of the window. "That always cheers you up," he states, looking at the rain slowly evaporating on the concrete. "Blue sky."
Clear horizons are fast becoming Coldplay's natural view. Headlining their largest tour ever, perpetrators of the real feelgood hit of the summer, they're taking it all in their coltish stride. Drummer Will Champion has just got over the autograph hunters he found waiting outside the venue three hours they came off stage.  Guitarist Jonny Buckland is getting used to the mysterious phone calls that are plaguing him at home. And never mind the celebrity-fest Jonny and bassist Guy Berryman were plunged into when they arrived in      Liverpool two nights ago. "Jimmy Corkhill dancing with a glass of wine," laughs the Pan-like Jonny. "And Finn from Hollyoaks." But it's the 2,000 people at the Royal Court positively yelling along with every word, that tips them into another world.
"It was more down to Liverpool than the band," says Chris modestly. But as the singer sprung around the stage in guppy-mouthed ecstasies while Jonny quietly got on with being a spotlit guitar star, it was obvious who was really to blame.
After all, Chris declared that their final song - the sombre stir of new track 'In My Place' would soon be Number One. Then he ran up and down the stage - twice - through pure high spirits.
Self-depreciation doesn't quite work with Coldplay. As Chris willingly admits, it's not something he's very good at: "I used to apologise for songs when we played live but it didn't work cause I didn't actually think that." And the insistence that the band are not "interesting" sits uneasily with their shining belief that they're something special.
Chris has a sore throat today, and combined with a good scratch of touring stubble and an array of fleecy and woollen clothing, he looks like he's just rolled blindfolded through Millets. But even though he seems more flu-stricken rambler than rock star on the road, he thrums with self worth. You also imagine from Chris' frequent references to journalistic "nonsense" and "bollocks" that, if it wouldn't get him into trouble with the law, he'd be laying journalistic mantraps sprung with Television CD's.
Would it be such a good idea to say that kind of thing on stage though? Might it not come across as a little …smug?
"I say that thing about Number One because I think it every night," he says with a hard stare. "It's the end of the concert - I don't think anyone really cares at that stage. But I have said some ridiculously stupid things. Nine out of ten I come off stage and say that was a good gig, but I'm sorry for being such a knob," he laughs. "So many people think we're humble, but we're not. I mean we're not Mozarts, but we are good. It's just being normal. I learnt my big lesson when I was15 and I came onstage with this band called 'Identity  Crisis.' It was an electro-pop outfit - me and my mate Dom. He was good and the tunes were good, but I was terrible. I borrowed a friend's long coat 'cos I thought I'd pretend to be Bono, all rock-starry, and I got a really bad reaction. From then on, I decided to be completely normal.
It's a highly stylised form of normality that Coldplay offer, however. While Travis (and Coldplay will be glad to see that name in print again) seem to magnify their genuine sweetness, Coldplay's aura of being wide-eyed, wobbly-legged foals in the evil pop abattoir seems a little unconvincing. In fact there's something slightly unnerving about them. All that stuff about bleeding yourself dry in 'Yellow'… a little creepy, no?
"I think you're misreading it," says Chris, slightly irritated. "That song is about devotion. That's just about somebody throwing themselves in front of a car for somebody else. Have you ever seen 'Back To The      Future'?" he asks.
"That's just a really positive thing. Yeah, it would be scary if you went up to someone you didn't know and said 'I'd bleed myself dry for you' - of course they're going to quake in their boots and run a mile. But if it was your wife or something, or your best mate…I'd do anything for them and they'd do anything for me. I dunno," he sighs. "The lyrics just arrived. You've gotta have overstatement in your songs, haven't you? I'm sure Atomic Kitten don't really want you do it to them right now, but that's how it comes across."
Well, how about 'Shiver'? That's certainly frightening, an extension of comic convict Otis Lee Crenshaw's classic country number 'Women Call It stalking (It's Just Selective walking)'
"'Shiver' is a bit of a stalking song," agrees Chris. "That's in the mix, really. It's a very aggressive mix." That's not really it… He sighs, "Well, you know I went through a long period of thinking I'd never be with someone and I think most blokes do - it's not something to whinge about." He stops abruptly. "You see, I just find all this really funny. It's just a song. I've got nothing to say about these songs."
Then why, NME finds itself wondering, should anybody else? Of course, if Coldplay didn't have songs as fine as 'Yellow' or 'Don't Panic' then they would still be roaming free at the Bull And Gate, but it should never, ever be "just a song" or worse, "just about the songs". These are words of death.
"Like, Radiohead come back with what is an amazing album and people are like, 'Oh, there's no songs on it.' Then we come out and people are like, 'Oh, it's only fucking songs.' You know what I mean? People as in journalists, people who write nonsense."
NME voices the opinion that it's Radiohead's contempt for their audience that's troubling. That suddenly   deciding you're an experimental band is kind of like a doctor deciding he can perform root canal work just because he wears a white coat.
"But once you get rid of the politics, judge it as an album - and it is just an album you can buy in the shops, it's not a thesis - in two years' time it'll just be one of their albums."
It's this complete lack of discourse that's weird for someone who claims to love music so much that he can't stop thinking about it. Nobody's craving the next Chumbawamba here, but the idea that music exists in a  vacuum, devoid of meaning except a brief emotional thrill is reactionary, well, nonsense. Changing a mood, a minute is one thing. Changing the frame of reference, that's another matter altogether.
It comes as a surprise, then, to find that Coldplay see themselves as defenders of the pop faith, chart   warriors on a mission from God. Ask Chris is he feels 'Yellow' could become a jaundiced albatross around his neck and he looks bewildered.
"Not at all!" he tuts. "How can you possibly complain about having a hit single? If somebody likes our song I don't care if it's a Pope or a pauper. I want to shake them by the hand and say, 'good on you, you don't like Mariah Carey and Westlife, you like something good.' That's why it's important to keep ourselves in the limelight - because we've got a war to wage"
"I heard something the other day and it made me feel physically sick," he says in his strangely emphatic way. "It was 'Flying Without Wings' by Westlife. You think, there's a nine-year-old listening to that who could be hearing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' or 'Paranoid Android' or a Stevie Wonder song or something. That's what gives us the appetite to stay in the mainstream, otherwise we'd retreat and be all lo-fi and stuff."
Really? "I think we've got a responsibility. It seems you've only got so much ear-time in your life and    sometimes I think, 'I've just wasted four minutes of ear-time on that and I could have heard something  amazing.' I'm sure a lot of people feel that way about our song 'Yellow', but at least we mean it."
It's difficult to believe that a group of young men could be as otherworldly as Coldplay are often portrayed, without being unable to work on their own front doors and wandering innocently into the road. They will admit to 'nice', though. 
"The thing is, most people we've met in bands are nice," says Jonny. "We haven't met anyone who's a  complete tosser, with no redeeming features at all."
"We are nice," says Chris blankly. "We don't hit people. I'm tempted to have a go at that bloke who used to run that label but I just can't be bothered. That whole thing about him - I forget his name…" (Alan McGee)
And then he blows his nonchalant vitriol: "Well, I don't, but I don't want you to mention it. I can't tell you how hard it is not to. You can tell I'm dying to speak out here but I'm not going to do it."
Nobody's goading you, honest. "I'm goading myself," he twitches. "I've done it before when we were in a rehearsal room, and said what I really thought, but it's not for anyone to know. Oasis are one of my favourite bands in the world and he signed them, so respect for that. And ride. He knows what he's doing." Chris pauses…waits…strikes: "Well, he did know."
They might feel they are put on the defensive, but they are perfectly capable of fighting their corner.
"We are being rock stars," says Chris. "We do it our way. I'm not going to take off my top and wear leather trousers. It's been done. We're not your classic rock stars by any means. We're not into mainlining crack or smoking our own blood." Not even at weekends? "Well, sometimes at weekends. But you've got to have songs. Though it does come across as terribly earnest when you say that." He looks out of the window. "People just don't know what else there is with us."
So? "Hmmm," he says, rubbing his chin. "What have we done that people might be interested in? I can't think," he mutters. "I'm sure there's something…"
A light dawns slowly in his eyes. "Well, people might not know that Will… Will's a good swimmer. Put that in. This is the sort of thing people want to know. We're all good swimmers actually."
There's a long pause and he sighs. "If we all went down in a plane crash," he muses, "then we might be     interesting. I wonder what people might say about us?"
What do you think they would say?
He thinks for a second. "'I thought they said they were good swimmers!'"