Continued from part I.
Swing When You’re Winning (2000)
I suppose I’m obliged to write something here, as objectionable as I find swing music, and as risible as Robert’s particular interpretation of it is. Come to think of it, Better Man amply explained his obsession with besuited, mafia-connected Rat Pack troubadours because, in fact, he was paying homage not to Frank Sinatra and Bobby Darin, but rather to his dad. By which I mean; mortifyingly twee British local entertainers of the 70s and 80s, loafing across the stages of working men’s clubs and beguiling the northern proletariat with their dubious interpretations of inter-war vaudevillian claptrap. I’d like to think Robbie was only able to get away with this album because of how massive he was at the turn of the century, but then the subsequent, shocking, Mussolini-esque ascent of Michael Bublé indicated that there was in fact a sustainable mass market for this ghoulish revivification of a long-dead cultural form. “Something Stupid” is amusing and even enjoyable as a novelty Christmas number one, but an entire album of this necrophilia? Nein.
Rating: *
Standout track: “Something Stupid”
Escapology (2002)
After that brief and regrettable interlude, we arrive at the peak of Robbie’s imperial phase. Escapology sold 7 million copies, a quarter of a million in its first week, and it was supported by three consecutive sold-out nights at Knebworth, which finally settled the score between the Fat Dancer from Take That and Oasis. Nonetheless, this is a darker, more abrasive record than its predecessors. Fame and success have evidently begun to curdle; friction is creeping into the prolific Chambers / Williams partnership; and the simmering themes of lovesickness, addiction, and self-destruction increasingly occupy centre stage. Musically, it’s something of a retreat from Robbie’s prior dabbling in synths and samples – unhinged and explosive blowouts such as “Monsoon” and “Come Undone” punctuate the playlist and, overall, it probably rocks harder than any of his other albums. Soppy ballads are still plentiful, of course, most notably the anthemic “Feel”, but even these moments are more brooding and anguished than “Angels” or “She’s The One.” All of which makes Escapology an exemplary, unusually tortured pop-rock masterpiece and, for my money, Robbie’s finest hour.
Rating: * * * * *
Standout track: “Feel”
Intensive Care (2005)
Another 7 million copies shifted, a chart-topping lead single, a gazillion-quid global tour, and a new record for selling the highest number of concert tickets in a single day. But despite the impressive numbers, Intensive Care does not feel like the apotheosis of imperial phase Robbie Williams. Guy Chambers is gone, and he’s taken his obstreperous Britrock with him; in his place is Steven Duffy, who brings a jangly, melancholy, sometimes eerie melodicism to Robbie’s increasingly dejected lyrics. The demented lead single “Tripping” sets a Guy Ritchie script to a Madness-style reggae pop song, but it proves to be a misnomer, because the bulk of Intensive Care is sleek, smoothly produced, but strangely glacial pop-rock. It’s great when it works, as it does on the tormented opener “Ghosts”; the bleak, throbbing “Trouble With Me”; and above all, the stately and mournful “Advertising Space”, a meditation on the corrosive effects of fame masquerading as an Elvis tribute. Sadly, it also results in a pretty forgettable midsection – a trap that Escapology largely eluded.
Rating: * * *
Standout track: “Advertising Space”
Rudebox (2006)
After the pride, the fall. Rudebox was released precisely one year and one day after Intensive Care, but it shifted 5 million fewer units and, in the UK, it was outsold by Take That’s comeback album – the ultimate indignity. But it’s tempting to think that Robbie was secretly pleased by all of this, because Rudebox sounds like a deliberate act of self-sabotage. The lead single and title track consists of mad-as-cheese minimalist electro-funk with nonsensical rapped lyrics, while the rest of the album is equally as bewildering, and unlike any of his previous releases. Almost a third of its sprawling 16 tracks comprises bizarre covers of obscure songs, while musically, there’s nary a guitar to be heard; it’s all spacey, glacial synth pop and weird-ass electro-funk. And yet, there’s a fantastic album buried beneath Rudebox’s bloat. Icy, literate 80s Krautrock throwbacks like “She’s Madonna”, “The Actor”, and “Burslem Normals” forecast the return of synthpop in the 2010s, while the record’s confessional closing section indicates that the self-destructive lost boy popstar was threatening to grow up.
Rating: * * *
Standout track: “She’s Madonna”
Continued in part III.