Don't call it a comeback

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Robbie Williams: Reality Killed The Video Star

It's the very early '90s. I was what is now know as a tween. I liked staying in my bedroom and taping songs from Mark Goodiers' Chart Show onto C90s.

Sitting atop my pink and grey cabin bed, probably on a dull Sunday tea time as the sound of Songs of Praise rose faintly from the living room below, I take a moment out from pressing play and record (doing my bit to kill music by home-taping) and flick through the pages of Smash Hits.

And there he was. Fresh-faced, cheeky grin, floppy Stussy hat and a twinkle in his eye that even now, nearly two decades and a lifetime away, can make me smile and my heart soften despite myself. I've never fallen for him, the boy-band-bad-boy, though. I just have this fondness for him. He's an old friend even though we've never met.

I've resisted this latest album for as long as I could because my heart belongs to his boys and to be honest, his recent twitchy lacklustre performances hadn't really made me think there was much to be had from Reality Killed the Video Star. I'm still not convinced there is.

This is a classic Robbie Williams Album following his tried and tested formula for melting the hearts of suburban mums (a pigeon-hole I could be slotted into if I'm being honest) with orchestral swells, the addition of a gospel choir here and there and that familiar Stoke twang.

Three singles open the album as Morning Sun defiantly refuses to rise above the lower-edge of average, Bodies falls short by acting arrogant but lacking confidence through being too self-aware and You Know Me hits a peak mainly because of the sample from Francois Hardy's Voila.

It's singing by numbers the rest of the way. Blasphemy begins to melt my heart, almost feeling like that old friend appealing to my softer side with a gentle shoulder nudge. That aural reach-out jars with some barely rhyming couplets requiring a second listen before the 'yes, really' come down can't be ignored any longer.

Last Days Of Disco harks back to previous hook-ups with the Pet Shop Boys (the brilliant No Regrets) but again comes up as nothing but a washed-out facsimile. There are some not-unpleasant moments but listening to the slide toward the albums end is in places a little too reminiscent of the score of an over-coloured, tightly-permed, early-80s detective show of some ilk. Slickly and sickly done.

Album closer Arizona makes a sideways reference to his recent disappearance from show-business to spend time looking out for aliens through seemingly comparing this to his, erm, struggle with the burden of fame. Whatever it's saying the pre-chorus guitar fall is the shamed half-sibling of Electric Six's Danger! High Voltage while the words 'Highway to the...' will always incite my internal lyric store to throw out 'dangerzone' (I'm obviously of that age).

This is a safe album which won't lose him any of those middle-of-the-road, middle-aged female fans who like the idea of a bad boy without ever having to go near the real dirt of rock'n'rollas. It's unlikely to win him any new fans either though.

On record just as on stage, the showman has lost the swagger and shrunk away. He's not leaving us much to love or lust for, the twinkle is as fleeting now as the moments of sparkle on this album.

I think this could be an opportunity though rather than an end. Have courage, old friend. Let the showman go. We don't need him, the world has turned. Doesn't mean there's no place for you, just don't become a parody of yourself. Let loose the glory days and be glorious once more.