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from Q

Fallen Angel: He can do whatever he wants. But why, oh why, this?

What a bizarre, baffling and downright strange record this is. Robbie Williams' seventh studio album is easily the most peculiar of his normally streamlined career. It doesn't even seem like a "proper" album, more a collection of b-sides and experiments that would ordinarily be saved for the end-of-career boxset. Or a Pet Shop Boys boxset, since one one track, We're The Pet Shop Boys (originally by obscure electro artist My Robot Friend - chorus: "We're The Pet Shop Boys!") seems like a mix-up at the playlisting plant.
Another four of the remaining 16 songs are covers, increasing the feeling that something is not quite right at Williams HQ. Tabloid editors will find that Rudebox adds plenty to the saga of his tortued psyche. Staunch fans, such as the millions who turned out for his recent stadium tour, will ask one of two questions. Either, "Who's stolen our beloved entertainer, the brilliant song-and-dance man who brightened our the last decade of our lives?" Or, more bluntly, "What the hell is this?".
For Williams himself, Rudebox is an apparently straightforward affair. "I suppose I've been trying to please a lot of people that are unpleaseable," he said recently. "Now I'm 32 and I've just gone, Oh f*** yeah, this is me."
So how, exactly, has Robbie Williams pleased himself? He's decided to blow off some steam, billing Rudebox as simply a collection of songs and styles he loves. The reality is a sketchy mix of baggy, rap, electronic and pop tracks patched together by a whole gang of collaborators. His most recent aide-in-chief, Stephen Duffy, recieves a sole co-write, the Black Grape-lite of Keep On, plus a Hi-NRG cover of his 1985 solo hit Kiss Me. Elsewhere there's assitance from the Pet Shop Boys, fashionable New York hip hop DJ Mark Ronson and veteran dance producer William Orbit, among others.
Inevitably, Rudebox is all over the shop, although not without flashes of excellence. On the few occasions that song, collabarator and the Williams chutzpah chime, it is indeed a blast. Lovelight (penned by UK soul man Lewis Taylor) is nimble RnB that channels the spirit of George Michael's Fastlove. Cheek is added to the swagger with the cover of world music nabob Manu Chao's King Of Bongo (retitled Bongo Bong here). The Gypsy punk original - about misunderstood musical prodigy, "a King without a crown" - is now a thumping OTT romp, with chav princess Lily Allen chirruping, "King of the bongos/I'm King of the bongos/Bong!" in the background. The Pet Shop Boys offer their usual class and polished synths, producing She's Madonna, an ode to the titular star's pulling power with a killer chorus: "I love you, baby/But face it, she's Madonna".

And that's largely it for high points. All good pop stars are magpies and great ones - such as Madonna - make pilfered styles their own. Left to his own devices, without a Duffy or, God forbid, a Guy Chambers, to bounce off, Williams seems incapabale of editing hit output. The two junior baggy tracks, Keep On and Good Doctor, are particularly woeful. And not just because of Williams' ludicrous bid to out-gibberish Shaun Ryder ("Can't speak/Ting tong ting!"), but because he also mimics his intonation, attempting to plunder some kind of street cred into the bargain.
Anyone who's heard the album's title track will also realise that what's currently fun for Williams isn't quite so terrific for the listener - it's hip hop as interpreted by Michael Barrymore. For Williams this may be the point; he's happy being "some end-of-the-pier entertainer", as he recently described himself. After all, it's helped endear him to the nation, not to mention baffle perfectionist America. Sometimes, though, being a bit shonky isn't charming, it's substandard.
More worryingly, Williams sounds trapped, obsessing over his past during a final, vaguely themed section of the album that covers his childhood (The 80s) and the blissful interlude of acid house (the otherwise lovely, Orbit-produced Summertime). Sometimes he sounds like he's trying to bottle fleeting moments of happiness, others like he's still not grown up. (As Q went to press, The 90s, a track which covers the Take That years, was hauled off the album due to remarks about their manager, Nigel Martin-Smith).
He lashes out even more wildly on barmy "secret" track Dickhead. A psuedo-Eminem rant arriving seven minutes after the close, its venom is aimed at anyone who's ever crossed him, especially rock critics: "What do you expect?/Dickhead!/Radiohead?/Dickhead!" It doesn't do him any favours, especially not when he warns "Size 10s, dickead!/Break your shins, dickhead!/My security is a dangerous crew/They'll kick f***/Out of you".
If, as its authot insists, Rudebox showcases the "real" Robbir Williams, on this showing he's bored and directionless. Of course, he is also the leading British pop star of his generation, someone who's earned the right to do exactly what he wants. Including relase a confused folly of an album. But just because you can do something it doesn't mean that you should.

** - Average

Download: Lovelight, She's Madonna and Bongo Bong

Further Listening:
The Human League - Hysteria

Sly & Robbie - Rhythm Killers

Mano Negra - King Of Bongo

Pet Shop Boys - PopArt: The very best of Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe, electronic pop veterans and world-class songwriting duo, who lent their skills to Williams on the arch She's Madonna. ***** - Q Classic

Lewis Taylor - Stoned, Pt.1



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