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This is brilliant
copy and paste it
One of the less savoury aspects of music criticism in the late 80s through to the turn of the century (Smash Hits notwithstanding) was the bile reserved for pop music. The vehemence doled out to this genre by rock dullards was only matched by the unpleasantness of the unspoken suggestion that it was music for children, girls and shirt-lifters. So really I suppose we should be happy that great pop from Sugababes to Scissor Sisters to Gorillaz is now given the credit it deserves. Unfortunately this seems to have instilled a poppist panic into critics who now seem afraid of failing to second-guess public opinion. Everyone from the NME to the Sunday Telegraph has bent over backwards to praise Robbie Williams' new 'electro' direction to the rafters. The spectacle is like watching a swarm of well meaning but deranged do-gooders hugging a beached whale that is already putrescent and swollen with methane, rotting on the sand in the midday sun.
Opener 'Rudebox' glistens like it's had a million quid spent on it and doesn't sound half bad, like a Jacques Lu Cont album track from ten years ago, but nothing, absolutely nothing is good enough, that Robbie can't spoil it. (Conduct a little experiment now: imagine any of these songs: New Order 'Blue Monday', A Guy Called Gerald 'Voodoo Ray', Donna Summer 'I Feel Love'. Now imagine a brain injured, egg bound, court jester from Stoke rapping these lines over the top: "Dance like you just won at the Special Olympics / I got the rudebox off the back of a space ship" over the top of it.) The song having the very soul ripped out of it this time is the formerly magnificent 'Boops (Here To Go)' and the only recompense is that Sly Dunbar, Robbie Shakespeare and Bill Laswell will be receiving a fat pay check any day now.
The trouble with this song (and the rest of the album that isn't comprised of covers) is that "the fat dancer from Take That" could not form a coherent lyric if his life depended on it. Now that the genius behind 'Angels' and 'Let Me Entertain You' (Guy Chambers) has been completely excised from the picture and now that he can't hide behind flaccid tribute projects any more ('Swing When You're Winning') Williams is in deep, deep trouble. His new lyrical equation seems to be rip off someone else's words, add some street slang that would have been out of date five years ago, mention some brand names, say something offensive and then shoe horn it all together. I mean what exactly does the rap: "Got no strings / But I think with my dingaling / Wu-Tang with the bling bling / I spin with a tin-tin gin gin" mean? He is now without the sole man who could have kept this all mugging, practical joke-playing Neil Morrissey of the boy band world in line and the person who actually made him work instead of messing about. Actually that's unfair to Neil Morrissey. I mean Keith Chegwin.
And this leads us directly on to the next complaint: he raps on nearly every track, making John Barnes sound like Big Daddy Kane. He raps in a Scouse accent; he raps in a Jamaican accent; he raps in a French accent. Truly there is no end to his cuntishness. And this is the biggest problem of all. He is a cunt; and it permeates every poisonous pore of this cancerous fly blown cyst of a CD. Showing some classic signs of socio and psychopathy he darts from self-pity to absurd egotism; from whining about no one loving him to bragging about his famous conquests (they include Madonna dontchaknow?); from wanting to display his working class roots to venal displays of his wealth, and often in the space of one song. With the over-sensitivity of a small child and the unexpected violence of a seasoned wife-beater, nothing that he says is constant or makes any logical sense bar his unwavering self-regard.
Of course it's even a lie to even claim that this isn't another covers album, given that they make up the majority of tracks here. Out of the Human League's glorious and groundbreaking career he manages to choose the mawkish 'Louise' and even then decides to include the spoken passage twice, such is his inability to keep fucking schtum. Not even the appearance of The Pet Shop Boys on My Robot Friend's 'We're The Pet Shop Boys' can pull this one out of the mire. Williams intones the names of several of their songs including 'Rent' as the song fades, thankfully, into silence. It doesn't take a genius to work out the subject of this song and this fits well into his profile, given the original modus operandi of Take That was to clean up in the gay clubs and the fact he was never scared of suggesting that he'd had gay relationships when it suited him (i.e. when he'd been out of the tabloids for a day or two). Well that's all fair enough, and playing the gay card has been part of the game since day one. But wasn't it Williams who recently sued The People et al successfully after they'd claimed he'd had a gay affair? Uh-huh. (For anyone wondering why this is a bad thing, it is because under libel laws he is either claiming that it will cost him money or lower him in the eyes of right thinking people – meaning either he, or his fans, are homophobic.) In happier times another drug-ravaged wreck (Jason Donovan) was consigned, rightfully, to the swing bin of history after a similar caper with The Face. Of course, in these post modern times Williams' actions can mean whatever he wants them to, so let's roll out the PSBs for a face saving turn. Was that morbidly obese, bewigged whore Elton John too busy eh? Recording a duet with Eminem perhaps?
"Me so young, me so horny", he raps in a Vietnamese accent on 'The 80s'.
"Now it's dinner with Versace / lunch with Princess Diana / And I'm gonna get battered / If I go out in my manor", he raps in a Stoke accent on 'The 90s'.
"I laughed the day Lennon got shot", sang the Manic Street Preachers in 1991. It's pie in the sky thinking but I hope I live long enough to hear someone apply the same sentiments to Robbie Williams before I die.
I hate this smug fucking cunt more than anyone else on this planet. This review hits the nail spalt bang on the head with the worlds biggest sledgehammer.
My favourite quote of the review:
"Truly there is no end to his cuntishness. And this is the biggest problem of all. He is a cunt; and it permeates every poisonous pore of this cancerous fly blown cyst of a CD"