Paper Magazine, April, 1999

Take That America
        
Robbie Williams: From the Top of the Pops to the Bottom of the Barrel and Back Again

  By Kurt B. Reighley. Photos by Hamish Brown. Click here for the photographs.

If the throng of girls I'm scrambling past knew what had just happened, they'd tear me limb from limb--or at least leave me standing in the streets of Dublin in my
boxers. Just minutes ago, pop sensation Robbie Williams presented me with a special gift: his pants, simply because the color, bright orange, matched my hair.

Who could blame these lasses if they set upon me violently? They've huddled in the cold drizzle all day, waiting for a glimpse of Williams exiting the hotel.
Meanwhile, he's been strutting around in his Calvins solely for my amusement. (If it's any consolation ladies, I've dreamed of Williams dropping his trousers for
longer than I care to admit.) You say you've never heard of this guy? Well, if you're not a big fag, an ardent British-music devotee or a very savvy teenage girl, the
oversight is excusable for a few weeks more--until Williams officially launches his assault of on America.

In England, Williams has released two number-one albums: the quintuple-platinum Life Thru A Lens and last year's follow-up, I've Been Expecting You. (His
American debut, The Ego Has Landed, on Capitol records, culls cuts from both.) His single "Angels" ruled the British Top Ten during the 1997 Christmas season,
and MTV Europe crowned him Best Male Perfomer last year. And that's all since leaving Take That, the celebrated boy band with whom he sold over two million
albums and racked up eight number-one hits. His split from the group in 1995 heralded the demise of one of Europe's biggest pop acts.

The extraordinary aspect of his story, however, isn't the dizzying height to which Williams has climbed. What's remarkable is how many times he's fallen on his face,
literally and figuratively, along the way. For one thing, before the success of "Angels" resuscitated sales, Life Thru a Lens had moved barely 40,000
units. He had released three other singles prior to that, each greeted with an increasingly lackluster
reception, and his consumption of drugs, alcohol, and food raged unchecked. In photos, he constantly
appeared bloated, over-weight, exhausted. The press had a field day at every ugly turn.

Cocky But Sincere
Williams loves his mother; he wrote the tender, "One of God's Better People" in her honor. But if Jan
Williams ever scolded her son not to play with his food, he's forgotten. Right now, he's flinging pieces
of sashimi across the hotel suite into his buddy Jonathan Wilkes' open mouth, like a trainer feeding a
seal. An interview with the 25-year-old star resembles nothing so closely as hanging with
Winnie-the-Pooh's spastic pal Tigger. The singer pauses to offer me a take-out tin of raw fish, the
same one he's been tapping his cigarette ashes into. "Would you like some salmon?" he asks,
straight-faced. "It's smoked."

The adrenaline from last night's sold-out gig hasn't subsided. "We did a two-hour show," Williams
proclaims. "I didn't want to get offstage." This evening, he'll play even longer, climaxing with
unrehearsed encores of the Clash's "Should I Stay or Should I Go?" and Primal Scream's "Rocks,"
then announce that it's been the best set of his life. Yesterday's show also featured another landmark.
"I had my first big strop last night too. Do you know what that means?" he asks. I say no and Williams
suddenly screams, "Where's my f***ing coat?" as I recoil. He smirks, dusting off his hands. "That's a
strop." It seems the prop he's required for a comedy bit hadn't been ready. "I've never shouted like
that before," he says. "I even scared myself. Now that I'm playing in arenas and loads of people like
me, I'm going to be mean to them."

Not bloody likely. Though he possesses a viscious wit, Williams is exeptionally good natured. At our
first, accidental meeting, he extends his hand and announces, "Hi, I'm Rob," in regular-guy fashion,
without any prompting from his handlers. There's an everyman quality about him. Taxi drivers in
Dublin all speak highly of him this weekend. Palpable sincerity underscores Williams' enthousiastic
delivery, his cocky disposition offset with exuberence. His hit "Let Me Entertian You" captures this
ceaseless need to amuse in a video that showcases him strutting about in Kiss drag. This is exactly the
sort of good old fashioned showbiz pizzazz that American rock desperately needs today. "Shoe-gazing
and being serious and slashing your wrists is all right," he shrugs, "if you like that sort of stuff."

Man or Party Machine
Williams didn't make the transition from teen idol to credible artist smoothly. Extricating himself from
contractual ties to Take That demanded time and money and prohibited him from recording for a year.
Although he needed time to regroup, he couldn't stay out of the public eye. "I'd worked nonstop:
seven days a week for six years," he says. It seemed only natural to continue the breakneck pace. He
filled the void with stints as a TV presenter, talk show guest and a general rabble-rouser. "I said, f***
work, I'll move to London and drink a lot," he recalls. He became a fixture on the celebrity pop
circuit. "In Take That, we weren't allowed to go out to these sort of places," he explains. "And to my
expense, a shrinking bank balance and rehab later, I found out why."

It's a tribute to the lad's stanima that he maintained the debaunchery as long as he did. In his concerts
nowadays, a montage of exploding Jack Daniel's bottles and humiliating tabloid headlines flashes
onscreen during "Man Machine," which commemorates his downhill slide. "Waking up at 2 o'clock in
the morning and going out to start the night for the next day was normal," Williams says. He'd call a
cab, hit the clubs and start shoveling coke up his nose.

Williams's new record company wasn't amused. Overexposure was eroding its acquisition's charisma,
and Williams had produced little music. His singing ability wasn't in question--he's handled lead
vocals on two Take That hits--but songwriting wasn't proving so easy. "I knew that I could write
poetry," he insists. "But I also knew that I only knew three chords, and the combination of those
chords can't last forever." Unless you're the Ramones. "or Oasis," he says, appearing momentarily
startled by his own tongue; the Gallagher brothers are his friends. "Meow," he muses, pursing his lips.
"Put the knife back in the drawer, Ms. Sharp."

The View From The Bottom
It's no coincidence that Williams is kicking off his European tour in Dublin. This is where he had the
epiphany that eventually set him back on course. He'd come alone, he says, on a "sad, self-destructive
mission" during the 1996 Christmas holidays. "I got off the ferry and didn't even unpack--just went
straight to the pub," he says. "Then I wandered about aimlessly, drinking Guiness." Through the haze,
the pensive lyrics for "Angels" took shape. By praying to be redeemed by a higher power, Williams
discovered the key to rescuing himself. "I got back and the record company went"--he assumes a very
stern tone--"Here's a sheet of people you're going to write with. Pick one!" Mercifully, his shotgun
wedding to Guy Chambers (of World Party) clicked. Their collaborations sparkled with the pop polish
of Williams' past, but recast in the indie rock tradition of Oasis, Blur, and Manic Street Preachers.

Still, Williams recorded his first full-length album in a stupor. He checked into rehab before the album
hit the shelves, then tackled the promotional trail clean and sober. (These days, the singer isn't
tee-total, but keeps his vices in check.) But despite a reputation for loving the underdog, the British
public had tired of his antics.

Rejection caught Williams off guard. He'd gone straight from school to Take That's protective cocoon
of foame. Sales of his first two singles, though hardly breathtaking, had proved impressive. "Then I
released the album and," arcing his hand sharply, he imitates an airplane plummeting to the ground.
People who'd once cooed over his every quip wouldn't deign the book to him on predawn chat shows.


These days, thanks to the belated triumph of "Angels" and the hits that followed--"Let Me Entertain
You," "Millenium" and "No Regrets"--the shoe's back on teh other foot. Williams says he learned a
lot during his exile in the trenches: "Now when I can't do every interview and people go, 'He used to
be ever so nice, give us everything we wanted,' I say,'If I wasn't so f***ing famous and selling lots of
singles, you wouldn't touch me with a barge pole."

Earning Indie Cred
One attribute that's never failed Williams is his refusal to play his cards close to his chest. "I expose all
my weaknesses, so nobody's got anything on me,"he says. Though he's uttered many unkind remards
to his former band and his ex-manager, Nigel-Martin Smith (inspiration for the blistering song "Karma
Killer"), he's rarely recanted.

Currently, the charts are clogged with prefab boy bands--Backstreet Boys, 'N Sync, Boyzone--for
which Take That set the standard. Although Williams crosses paths with them occasionally, members
rarely approach him. "Only with sexual advances," he jokes. "Originally, as soon as I'd left, they'd ask
me for advice." They stopped queuing up when he checked into rehab.

Williams moves in different circles now. He performed alongside Tom Jones at last year's Brit
Awards. The Pet Shop Boys' Neil Tennant and the Divine Comedy's Neil Hannon sang on his recent
smash "No Regrets," and the latter is serving as this tour's support act. "I have to be drunk just to
speak to (Hannon), because I'm so in awe of his talent," Williams says. But the only person who
questions Williams' crediblity now is himself. Damon Albarn from Blur is his neighbor. When their
paths cross, Williams dissolves into a stuttering schoolgirl. "Is this person thinking I am a dick?" he
worries. The paranoia stems partially from respect for Albarn's songwriting, but the main culprit is the
specter of William's past. "There's still that habit built-in reaction: 'I'm from a boy band, and you're
immensibly credible.'" During the making of Life Thru A Lens, Guy Chambers had telephoned Sonya
Madan of Echobelly and invited her to sing on a track. She laughed and hung up on him. "I'm not a
musician," Williams says. The craft of composition often feels foreign. "I don't pretend to be Marilyn
Manson or Billy Corgan or Noel Gallagher. I don't have intistic artegrity."

You read that spoonerism right. Williams has dyslexia, which he lampoons frequently. "I'm going to
write a song called, 'Just Because You;re Dyslexic Doesn't Mean You're Not Thick,'" he announces.
"So many people go, 'Oooh, can you check the bill out?'or "Can somebody spell this for me? I'm
dyslexic.' And because it's the 90's and everybody's PC, it's accepted."

Political correctness puts Williams' knickers in a knot, primarily because it's ruined his favorite film
franchise. "James Bond is sh** since political correctness," he laments. On the cover of I've Been
Expecting You, Williams strokes a cat, one eyebrow cocked in a homage to the secret agent.
"Millenium," his first U.S. single, continues the trend, lifting a riff from "You Only Live Twice" for the
hook and showcasing the singer with a gaggle of Bond beauties in the video.

The Bond parallels point toward why this man stands to succeed in America where other U.K.
phenomena have fallen short. Like the secret agent at his best, Robbie Williams is quintessentially
British in character yet international in appeal. Women want to be loved by him and men would love
to be him.

A few would opt for both. While his Take That costume soften resembled International Male castoffs
and his turbulent romance with All Saints' Nicole Appleton looks like a classic beard job, Williams is
not gay. But he'd be very good at it if he were. By the end of our interview he has: a) extolled the
physical charms of E lvis Presley, short-lived Bond George Lazenby and even Matt LeBlanc of
Friends b) shouted, "All right, I'm gay!" and "I'd sleep with Tom Jones"; c) stripped down to his
underwear; and d) kissed me good-bye.

Not surprisingly, Williams' combustible character has confounded some critics in the build-'em-up,
knock-'em-down U.K. media. Much of the praise he receives is backhanded. "They say that I'm
'humbly arrogant,'" he claims. "you know Prince Naseem (Hamed), the boxer? He's never been beat.
He makes predictions about what round he's gonna knock people out in. And he's accused of being
ultimately arrogant because, he says, 'I'm the greatest Nobody's going to beat me.' Sometimes I get
accused of the same thing. But if you don't think that you are the greatest at what you do, you're
going ot get beated up. If I don't become the very best entertainer, I'm going to fall."

After a decade in training, Robbie Williams is ready to square off with America. But first, he's going to
fetch a change of pants.