"WHAT'S he ever done that's actually been any good?" It's a question
that pops into your head towards the end of LTAL for the first time. It
comes shortly after the question "Do I actually give a sh*t if he's like
done drugs and shagged supermodels and stuff?" Then "Killing Me" belches
its squeaky, ploddy, flatulent, lardy arse into your ears and the answer
come as thick and as fast as Robbie himself: nothing and no.
There are chinks in this drearily fatuous armour though, through which a
certain light still shines. The sleeve for a start, is an awesome
exercise in self-aggrandisement, every picture screaming a thousand
words, each one "Yesss!!!". Then there's the hidden track, a poem from
Robbie to an old teacher, spitting bile and smug ner-ner-nee-ner-ners.
And the sleeve notes are so dry they are desiccated, so icily glib they
are deep frozen." My past is something I find difficult to accept,"
writes Robbie to ex-TT manager Nigel Martin-Smith, "especially the part
with you in it." But the music? What music?
If you dodge past lyrics like "I hope you've strayed/Aaaah and got laid"
on the (obviously about Gary Barlow) "Ego A Go Go." If you duck under
admissions like: "I know a freak young lady/Name of Cocaine Katie" from
the current single South Of The Border. If you ignore the fact that RW
is now so much more than just a voice, a face and two once-pert
buttocks, you hit a f**king abyss. There's simply nothing here.
Nothing bar the "Black Velvet" sleek-rock which permeates through this
album like the background clicking of champagne flutes at the Groucho
Club (un-ironically thanked on the sleeve notes). Nothing bar the twists in
the tracks which sends Robbie's Oasis/Verve/Embrace desires drifting off
into a siding of woefully dodgy Extreme tweeness when he tries to get
all acoustic and ahem, real on the songs like "One of God's Better
People". Nothing bar the aimless ripping-off of The Who's "Pinball
Wizard" on "Let Me Entertain You", the powerchords and poodle-permed
crooning grainy carbon copiesinstead of blistering nitro injection.
Nothing bars the moment when Robbie tries to sing quietly and ends up
sounding like Kermit The Frog's weedy nephew Robin. Nothing bar the
moments when Robbie tries to let-rip and ends up sounding like bleeding
Barry Manilow. Nothing bar the moments when Robbie forgets to sing
either quietly or loudly and subconsciously slips into sounding like
Richard "Hazard" Marx.
Sure this is the album lyric sheets were invented for and, sure, Robbie Williams is
as fascinating a hapless goon as we're ever likely to come across. But
this album feels more like a press release than an album- and that's not what I call music.
Reviewed by Robin Bresnark
Typed up by Burak, thanx!