Robbie Williams
The Ego Has Landed
[Virgin]
Rating: 2.9
Not many people know this, but Robbie Williams was a former member of the
ill- fated Spice Guys, an embarrassing and very hush- hush failed endeavor
of that Tom Selleck of Corporate Tyranny, Richard Branson. The idea was
scrapped after a panel of executives complained that the Spice Guys--
Brain- Tumor, Crouton, Slacker, Date- Rape, Cop- Killer and Silly- Ass
Spice (aka Williams)-- were too masculine and that their "breasts were still
in development." Instead, this initial blueprint gave way to the more
lucrative idea of what we all know and worship as the Spice Girls. This
isn't to say that the handsome Williams wouldn't have fit in nicely with a
little makeup and some strategically- placed silicon implants.
In truth, though, Williams fills the void created by the sad and
long- lamented disappearance of pop- chart weenies like Rick Astley, ABC,
and Corey Hart. As you may know, Astley, ABC, and Hart supposedly vanished
into a suckhole leading to the fiery nether regions of Valhalla, thus
fulfilling their respective Faustian bargains. Much like the hackwork of
these doomed pop souls, Williams' songs boast little originality; it's as
if they're constructed piecemeal from countless easily- recognizable bits
of modern Billboard history. This is sampling, if you will, without
the aid of one of those sampling thingies.
But seriously, folks! Williams was actually part of a semi- successful
outfit of British popsters called Take That. Although they managed a certain
degree of success in England, Take That could never stir up much interest in
the States. Maybe their failure was due in part to the fact that their music
didn't quite resemble the trying- desperately- to- sound- American punk- pop
of Bush. Nor did their sound embody the opposite extreme of over- the- top
Saxon pop purity displayed by bands like Oasis and the Verve.
If American audiences know what's good for 'em, this compendium of
Williams's U.K. output will be as equally unwelcome on our shores as other
hallmarks of English culture: blood pudding, high taxes, tea time, Camilla
Parker- Bowles, Rowan Atkinson, etc. Then again, now that Jesus Jones has
been mercifully AWOL for years, and Oasis' reservoir of stolen ideas has
dried up completely, it's only natural that a guy like Williams should be
next in line to carry the torch of ultra- commercial Brit-pop pomposity
across the Atlantic once more.
Admittedly, the innocent Oasis rip- off, "Lazy," goes fairly easy on the
ears. And Williams' vocals aren't too sickening if consumed in small doses.
I mean, all he really wants to do, as mentioned in "Lazy," is "have a jolly
good time." Of course, this basically echoes Sheryl Crow's deceptively
simple philosophy, "All I wanna do is have some fun." Only Williams'
version is filtered through that regal argot known as the Queen's English.
Alright, all xenophobic sarcasm aside, there's simply a point at which
Williams' delivery becomes much too bombastic, and he lapses into lyrical
overkill and typically English vocal hysterics. "Let Me Entertain You" is a
giggle- inducing bit of self- advertising, as Williams takes the world's
stage and delivers his illuminating soliloquy to the lost, lonely billions
on Earth: "You got to get high/ Before you experience the lows." This
aphorism, surprisingly, would be the exact inverse of Steve Miller's
Bunyan- esque belief that "you gotta go through hell before you get to
heaven."
It's not that Master Robbie is totally bereft of songwriting instinct or
ability, it's just that he takes the concept of simple pop music and blows
it way out of proportion. Like Michael Jackson or Abba, most of what he
probably considers straight- forward pop actually circulates in the realm
of some sort of hyper- or meta- pop fairyland, to the extent that Wings'
Silly Love Songs might sound like a Leadbelly album in comparison.
"Old Before I Die" is the closest Williams comes to actually "rocking," in
case you're interested. And of course, he has to ruin the effect with his
positivist strictly- for- the- kids message, attempting, I assume, to come
up with a better alternative to Pete Townshend's 20- year- old wish for
premature death on "My Generation." "I hope I live to see the day the pope
gets high," sings Williams with utmost conviction. I think I speak for all
of us when I say, "Ugh."
The Donna Summer disco- string section and robotic hip-hop beats on
"Millennia" are bound to make even the Robert Stigwoods of the world gasp,
"Gawd, that's too above- board poppy for me, thanks. I'll stick to producing
Bee Gees roots- disco." Here, Williams achieves the near- impossible by
fusing modern American- style commercial foresight with a deeply rooted
determinist worldview passed down from his lyrical forefathers, Chaucer and
Shakespeare: "We've got stars directing our fate/ And we pray that it's not
too late/ 'Cause we know we're fallin' from grace/ Mil-le-nni-uh!" The mere
mention of the Millennia ought to make for about 250,000 units sold alone.
Very timely, indeed. Maybe the term "stars" in this song is a euphemism for
"a huge, corrupt, American record company staffed by petty thieves and P.T.
Barnum- like exploiters" directing Williams' fate. In that case, who the
hell wouldn't be worried about the future?
Anyway, here's a quick, economic rundown of what to expect from the rest of
The Ego Has Landed. "No Regrets" sounds like Wham!, or possibly, the
Pet Shop Boys. "Strong" sounds like the song Williams recorded just after
auditing Matthew Sweet's 100% Fun. "Angels" is pink feather- boa'd
Elton John mishap with a studio- cloistered guitar chappie doing his best
imitation of the Quiet Beatle on lead. "I can't believe it's not Harrison!"
exclaims Williams, sounding, as usual, like an advertisement for something.
"Jesus in a Camper Van" is sort of a "Mr. Bojangles," for the Ecstasy/ Rave
social set. "She's the One" is Bob Seger's "Night Moves" with a few minor
alterations. As a bonus, when "She's the One" is played backwards, it begs
to be used in an upcoming Freddie Prinze, Jr. movie. And finally, "Win
Some, Lose Some" sounds strangely similar to that Icicle Works fluff- pop
classic, "Birds Fly (Whisper to a Scream)."
So there you go, sports fans. The ego has landed, indeed. But why couldn't
this ego could have gotten conveniently lost in the fog somewhere off
Martha's Vineyard? Or if only it could have mistakenly landed in the Black
Hills Forest and been terrorized into submission by the designer rock
formations and hanging twigs of the infamous Blair Horticulturist.
-Michael Sandlin