In a year in which the defining trends have been the unstoppable rise of Travis and the New Miserablists (Doves, Muse, and so on), Coldplay are very much a band of their time. In the two years since their inception, they, like Travis, have constructed an anti-image of bruised vulnerablity and machismo-free bonhomie. In singer Chris Martin, they also possess a songwriter who tends towards the melancholic (the opening song here contains the line "All of us are done for"). The only difference is that where Travis took a whole album to arrive at The Man Who, Coldplay have done it straight away.

Parachutes is a sensational opening gambit and one that more than justifies the plaudits heaped upon them by the weekly music press (they've already had one NME cover). Although Jeff Buckley and Radiohead are the names normally bandied aroubd when discussing them, a more telling reference point, certainly in terms of background and sensibility, might be Nick Drake. Parachutes - where virtually every track is a doomed love-letter to persons unknown - has the same enveloping warmth and brittle emotion.

There's also a sense of familiarity here that eases you in. The spine of this record is comprised of their three Parlophone singles to date - the spectacular emotional flare-ups of "Shiver" and "Yellow", as well as two tracks from their debut Blue Room EP. The fact that these are augmented by at least two tracks ("Trouble" and "Everything's Not Lost") that equal, if not surpass, them in terms of melody and naked intimacy adds to the feeling that here is a very special record indeed.

If many debut albums are capsized by clamorous expectations, Coldplay's gradual ascent has meant they've reached their first summit with oxygen to spare. Parachutes is a wonderful record. Coldplay might be a band of their time, but what they've achieved here goes far beyond that.

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