We've been expecting you

Quoted from: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/

'In an exclusive first hearing of Intensive Care, Robbie Williams's new album, Dafydd Goff questions whether the self-professed 'King of Pop' will keep his newly acquired title His regal showmanship in Berlin last week may have crowned Robbie Williams the new King of Pop, but a first hearing of his new album suggests that he needs to put more effort into his songs if he is to retain his throne.

As with the expectation surrounding his Live8 performance this summer, there is pressure on EMI's hit machine to make a definitive statement, especially now that he is no longer working with his erstwhile song-writing partner Guy Chambers. But if this album is it, it's worrying.

Intensive Care, his fifth album of original material, is a play on the idea that he laboured for two years over the song-writing process, as well as the fact that much of the album eschews his characteristic charm for an on-the-psychiatrist's-couch confessionalism.

Robbie, now 31, appears to be in a crisis of masculinity. In a recent interview, he admitted that he plunged into depression after turning 30 and realising there was a void in his life. Posing as a sensitive soul in a 'spiritual lull', he has plied journalists with sob stories about addiction, feeling terrified of being single, and claims that deep down he is just a little boy who wants to be loved. Bless.

These maudlin, attention-seeking sentiments are very much a part of album on which Williams presents himself as a penitent playboy who wishes to atone for past indulgences, expressing the desire for clean living but at the same time wanting to continue the perks of his millionaire lifestyle.

Another recurring theme is a pining for the past, a need to revisit childhood haunts and old flames. Indeed, much of this album is a nostalgia feast, awash with wistful yearning. Co-written and produced by Stephen Duffy (formerly of Duran Duran and the Lilac Time), Intensive Care has been misleadingly hyped as 'wildly experimental', although it does expand his pop palette, referencing early-1980s bands that, thanks to Franz Ferdinand, are now de rigeur, namely Gang of Four, Human League, New Order and other stars in the electro pop firmament.

The opening track, Ghosts, begins with Robbie boasting to an ex-lover: 'Here I stand victorious, the only man who made you come ...' This is Robbie posing as a New Lad, all swaggering braggadocio and pride. Touches of the early 1980s - particularly New Order - about, Early-1980s touches abound, and the title of the track alludes to song by Japan.

Tripping, the current single, finds Williams mimicking the reggae-infused post-punk swagger of the Clash but instead his strained falsetto sounds like Sting. Touted as a 'mini-Gangster opera' this is Robbie in the guise of Guy Ritchie. It surpasses Rock DJ, perhaps my least favourite of his hits, in the annoyance stakes.

Make Me Pure finds Robbie posing as the ambivalent sinner asking for forgiveness while wanting to continue, at least to some extent, with his self-destructive lifestyle. 'Lord, make me pure...but not yet,' pleads Robbie as a Gospel choir adds emotional oomph to the swelling sound. Here, his ego reaches monolithic heights, 'I look for love, I like the search, I'm standing for election across the known universe.' It will probably be the next single.

Spread Your Wings is a jangly pop number that the La's would have discarded even on a bad day. It name checks forgotten 1980s artists such as Oran Juice Jones and Jocelyn Brown and revisits Robbie's hometown of Stoke-on-Trent as he searches for an old flame.

Advertising Space is a grandiose orchestral pop song that will probably be a single. It draws from Quentin Tarantino's story True Romance, where Christian Slater's character is able to speak to the spirit of Elvis Presley. When Robbie sings about Marlon Brando, it reminds me of the scene in The Godfather, where Don Corleone's son Fredo comes crawling for guidance, a spectacle of self-pity. 'Oh, Godfather, I don't know what to do with myself,' he simpers. Brando springs out of his seat and snaps, 'You can act like a man for a start!' He'd tell Williams the same thing.

Please Don't Die, concerns a family member who died of cancer. Unfortunately, the dear-diary sentiment of lines like, 'Look around, there's no one to love me, hold me,' render this confessional song the wrong side of mawkish. Your Gay Friend can be generously described as a less catchy version of the theme tune from Friends. Sin Sin Sin, bears the hallmark of Duffy's production, adopting the metronomic pulse of Kraftwerk, although the result sounds more like the Human League.

Random Acts is Robbie's risible account of flirting with black magic, having recently confessed in an interest in the occult, spoken all kinds of nonsense about wanting to conjure the spirit of Horus, the mythological Egyptian deity, and not ruling out the possibility of entering one of the fashionable faiths such as Scientology, Buddhism and Kabbalah. Here, he sings of putting a spell on a lover who spurned him. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he comes across as more David Blaine than Aleister Crowley.

A Place to Crash shamelessly steals the Rolling Stones' riff from Jumpin' Jack Flash while Robbie shouts 'Guitar!' without any sense of irony. He's back in New Lad mode on this one as the following pastiche of David Bowie's Queen ****** attests: 'I'm on a mission to abuse my position with love. I'm a cynical ******, I'm gonna scratch that itch, with a ****** like you.' Note the ingenious rhyme scheme of ******, itch and ******.

The egregiously titled closing track King of Bloke and Bird, aims for the plaintive strains of country music, but falls short, as he fails to understand that by simply adding pedal steel to your songs doesn't make you Neil Young. Robbie refuses to play this song live as it is 'too painful'. His fans should thank him. What I used to respect about Robbie Williams was that he was always careful to refer to himself an 'entertainer' rather than an artist. Here, he seems to have lost sight of his grounding self-deprecation as preciousness gets the better of him. Lyrically, he's less inventive. On his first two albums he proved himself a smart lyricist providing a witty commentary on his rise to fame, but here this has given over to solipsistic self-analysis and mawkish sentiment.

His referencing of Oran Juice Jones' The Rain, Prefab Sprout's When Love Breaks Down and the Human League's Louise may be a revealing insight on the music that informed his adolescence but will no doubt lose resonance with his core audience who are too young to remember these songs.

There is nothing on Intensive Care that comes close to scaling the emotional heights of Feel, the soaring sentiment of Angels, the arms-aloft chorusing of Millennium, or the infectious ebullience of Let Me Entertain You. His introspection prevents any rousing stadium appeal, which is really what he does best and what his fans love about him. On the evidence of his last two albums, his best work is behind him. If anything, Intensive Care proves that some nostalgia trips are best embarked upon alone, and for some Robbie fans this album may prove a journey on which they do not want to join him.'