Joy Division? Shit. The Beatles? Shit. Radiohead? Shit. They’re all shit.
There are times in life when you must stand up for what you believe in. Now is one such a time. I fight for the redemption of music. I fight for Robbie Williams. Yes, I’m out, and I’m proud.
Ever since Robbie Williams ripped off his own skin and cast his fresh flesh into a throng of ravenous half-naked ravens on roller-skates, I have harboured a secret crush. I am not ashamed to admit it, and I am not ashamed to have attended Robbie live in concert, Christchurch, 2001. It was a “sick” gig. Robbie remains the eternal spring of hope buried deep ‘neath my loins, the sparkle in thine lover’s eye, the heavenly breathe upon a supple summer’s wind. Robbie is my life; my destiny. They say music taste is subjective. Perhaps this is true. But not with Robbie. Robbie is truth.
In those days it was OK to be open about these things. They were brighter times; Robbie was universally adored. Torn from humble beginnings, he was cast into the spotlight, lusting after transcendent greatness. This he achieved in the spring of 1998 with the release of seminal compilation-infused-with-original-material classic, The Ego has Landed. It seemed Tony Bennett had fornicated with George Michael and produced the god-child of soft pop-rock. He was purity in a festering sin-pit of pop filth.
But then came the stigma. The album Rudebox was released and, just like that, Robbie was uncool. Rudebox: what was this enigma? I became insecure—ashamed even—isolated. Occasionally though, in the forgotten back-rows of class, the muffled phrase “I actually enjoyed the hidden track on Escapology” could be heard and I would know I was not alone. There was rare companionship. But there would always, just as swiftly, be retraction: “I don’t really like Robbie Williams.” Alas, it hurt me then to see those poor fools suppressing natural instinct. But I kept faith. It takes courage to swim against the current. I mean, if you can’t swim, you drown. But today, those dark times are over.
In defence of music, I offer you three reasons why Robbie Williams is the greatest recording artist of all-time:
Record sales are no indication of quality. Not so for Robbie. He’s sold a fuck-load of records. Everyone fucking loved him. How’s that for fucking tautology.
Robbie has the fertile mind for lyrical intrigue revered by all great musicians. Few have covered as diverse a range of subject matter. Compare the discussion of 21st Century mystic hedonism in ‘Let Love Be Your Energy’ with the analysis of medieval occult fatalism in the trip-hop infused archetypal Bond ballad, ‘Millenium’. “We’ve got stars directing our fate, and we’re praying it’s not too late, cos we know we’re falling from grace,” he sings in the chorus.
I don’t particularly like tattoos and it is no secret the Robbie has a penchant for the habit. But his tattoos serve a purpose. They are a reflection of his descent from god to fallen-angel. But he knows this. “Such a saint but such a whore”, he reflects in ‘Come Undone’. He’s self-aware; it’s fucking postmodern, trust me. It’s art. And every erudite bro has got to love a bit of art.
Now, nothing repulses me more than people who claim to possess superior music taste to others. But then, it is important that we reject total relativism. It leads to critical inertia. Sometimes it is imperative that we stand up for what we believe in. In doing so, we must not have any regrets: “they only hurt”. Robbie’s coming back you see. I know it. He must… for me… The Rudebox years are but his time dormant, buried behind stone. Soon, his heavenly spirit will return, the stone will be cast aside, and he will rise again. This time, more powerful than we can possibly imagine.
In these days of apathy and doubt, there is only one such thing I can say with certainty: I believe in Robbie Williams. If you too know truth, speak out. You are not alone.