Like Dua Lipa on Friday night, they understand the brief: You can’t turn up to Glastonbury and play the same old festival set. It has to feel special.
They start with Yellow. Yes, Yellow. A song any other band would save for the encore.
And for the next hour, the hits don’t stop: Higher Power, Paradise, The Scientist, Hymn For The Weekend, Viva La Vida. The setlist is stacked.
But it’s more than that. Chris Martin makes it his mission to reach every member of the audience individually.
That’s why they give out the wristbands that turn the whole field into a giant LED screen. That’s why there are fireworks every five minutes. That’s why so many of their songs have a bit that goes “woaaaaah” – even the most casual fan can sing along.
During The Scientist, Martin thanks the people who’ve waited by the front barriers all day.
“It’s amazing that none of you had to pee,” he laughs.
But he also acknowledges “everybody in the middle of the field” and the latecomers “at the back, five time zones away, in their wellington boots”.
“Thank you for all your flags and the singing and everything. This is our favourite thing to do on earth, so thank you for letting us do it.”
The production is such an assault on the senses – with all its lasers and giant balloons and confetti cannons – that experiencing it leaves you feeling slightly dizzy.
But it’s exactly that largesse that sets Coldplay apart.
Cynics might dismiss it as pandering to the lowest common denominator. I prefer to think of it as generosity. An act of community.
It also helps that they have an impenetrable arsenal of hits.
Clocks, with its swirling piano hook, is a strangely paranoid stadium anthem (“am I part of the cure, or am I part of the disease”), while Sky Full Of Stars is a pure sugar-rush of pop perfection.
The urgent, propulsive Viva La Vida might tell the story of a deposed despot reminiscing about his glory days, but everyone knows it for the five note “oh-ah-woah-oh-oh” hook, that rings around the Pyramid Stage long after Coldplay have left.
