Back in October 2006 I wrote a less than complimentary track-by-track review of Robbie Williams’s seventh studio album Rudebox for the paper.
Admittedly, I didn’t have much time to put it together – just a quick whizz through each track on the digitally-protected “copy this and die” press only download – but I was decidedly underwhelmed.
Now, I like Robbie Williams. I may describe him as a “poor man’s Jonathan Wilkes“ but I actually do have a lot of time for him. How could I not when he is a local boy? Partly as a legacy from my days at the paper, I have all his albums, a DVD and five biographies (surely at least four more than anyone needs – the best, if you’re interested, is definitely this one by Sean Smith) and I’m always interested to see what he’s up to.
But Rudebox? I wasn’t alone in panning it - it’s not his usual fare, and, after all, I count Intensive Care among my top ten albums. You can’t compare the two. But Robbie, I owe you an apology. Thanks to the wonder of the Shuffle Songs feature on my iPod I have discovered the joys of Rudebox.
Driving along the country roads this morning the song The 90s came over my car speakers – I almost went to skip it, but in the end I loved it. It’s so sad – it’s almost like poetry, if you excuse the bad language. It sounds like it comes from the heart.
So on the way home I listened to the album and, while it is a bit patchy in parts, it’s really not that bad. Songs like The Actor and Louise are actually spine-tinglingly good. I’m still not convinced about the suitability of the Stoke accent for rapping, but hey, rather that than faux-American mid-Atlantic drawl that does no one any favours.
If you, like I did, have a copy of Rudebox hidden away, unloved and gathering dust, let me suggest you give it one more try. Go on. And then, please join me in eating my words. I can’t unwrite my bad review – and I doubt anyone remembers it but me! – but I wanted to publicly say “sorry, Robbie, I got it wrong - no hard feelings, duck“.
