A jukebox experimental poem/essay exploring ambition, glamour and the relationship between Robbie Williams’ cabaret roots and Frank Sinatra, Elvis, Lana Del Rey, The Last Showgirl and The Killers, Blackpool and Las Vegas shining entwined.
black tie, coat tails,
patent shoes twist and kick, glide on shiny floors away
from your past
rat pack, tap dance tales, sheer tights and pin curls
he sings sequins and self-depricating sparkle, grin and bright eyes, vanity mirror lights glimmer in the iris and I am sold,
a tale of wide smiled woe because he’ll laugh at himself before we can, it is loveable but crippling
click your fingers and swing with me, swing when you are winning, in your mind or in your future
I got the routine, put another nickel, in the machine
‘While there’s moonlight and music and love and romance, lets get butt naked and all fucked up on drugs’, a radical honesty, a cheeky cabaret yet the honesty is scripted and performed, pantomime. Steps ahead in the glamour, to know that the audience has a superstar Robbie in their mind but steps back as still he longs for their approval. Showgirls dance with R studded collars around their neck, faux maybe real, maybe faux glances from the man himself towards ‘the girls’, sex is present. And yet it’s somehow not, I can’t unsee the little boy who wants to impress his dad. Cabaret father makes ‘the thing is my dna is cabaret’ son, little Robbie stands aloft on the sofa whilst his father sings to the tv.
‘you’re either born with it or you're a nobody’
Living room dancefloors for those in small houses, symphonies hide the sorrow for now. Some carry weapons, some carry words, some carry dreams, some rewrite scenes in biopics that unite father and son, showmen together,
was the film was for the self or for the father, or both, the same in his eyes, the versions of himself who carry hate transformed by his star power that is finally enough to impress Peter Williams.
but I don’t let it get me down, back in the race
Frank’s velvet bow tie, and finger wiggling, cufflinks and a shrug, a knowing look and lean back from the mic and bellow, but this is a crooner, ol’ blue eyes less ferocity though than the hips of another of Robbie’s men, the best dressed kid in the neighbourhood with the tales of a childhood that shapes a star,
half shaped heart ready for applause
it was always due to emotional tension, which ‘absolutely destroyed him’
‘I have an over-acute capacity for sadness as well as elation’ said Sinatra but these words could be borrowed for most of the satellite stars of the Rat Pack, and our King of Rock and Roll
my favourite moment by the slick back hair and double breasted suited man, with red dotted lights spelling out Elvis, is as he sung of his desire to dream of a better land where all my brothers walk hand in hand we must not forget where all of this music comes from
the classic recipe of black talent made palatable to conservative audiences via the crooning white man
triple step, triple step, rock step
my heart sinks each time Robbie asks the audience to appreciate him in each ‘joke’, the vulnerability admirable but feels as if it ebbs away what is already in him. Maybe I long for more for him in this performance, the version of Robbie that exists now. I wonder if he sees the pain in 2001. I want him to celebrate himself beyond the shame because I want to celebrate myself beyond the shame,
guilty glamour let us both believe the fantasy even for an hour.
old reviews chastise the sentiment and encourage the humour, and I think
Jesus Christ can someone not love themselves on this miserable little island?
take me to the movies, hold my hand and buy me popcorn
butter dripping down our fingers, sugar cola stinging teeth
this is living, this is loving but
some fans want you fucked up, because they want the glamour by association, the danger of teetering at the top and living vicariously thorugh chaos whilst they maintain good sleep and healthy relationships
jive and quick step, lindyhop stopping time while
a TV interview, from November 3, 2023 plays on: ‘And I have a theory that it may be something to do with PTSD trauma mixed with generational stuff that gives you your mental illnesses and the twinkle behind your eyes. Magic, though, isn't it?.’
devotees speak of Lana’s light lost, Sparkle Jump Rope Queen no more as she speaks of
‘quieting the noise to find love’
Do you only want them out of control so you get to own a piece of their downfall?
declaring ‘tonight will be therapy for me, but it will be entertainment for you’
Robbie’s eyes glow differently as Sinatra sings over the track, vintage footage aloft the Royal Albert Hall and our boy sobs mouthing along eyes shut, we have the real man in this moment and here is the melancholy magic, the beauty, the appreciation for his crooning lineage,
mr Francis Albert, Sinatra’s star name stripped away for them both, kinship
‘if you make it, it’s paradise’
a dear friend brought on stage and spoke of, ‘without him I wouldn't be performing in a dinner jacket tonight, I'd probably be performing in a straight jacket’, friendship as a liferaft but how can they keep you afloat forever when you aren’t sure you have a life without this tornado devotion? The love of a mass will make up for those early quiet days at home, there is a silence to troubled families that sits between the shouting and sometimes it hurts more.
I will talk and Hollywood will listen, like Oscars speeches in the mirror,
I will talk and my father will listen,
‘a swellegant, elegant party this is’
glitter eyelids, star/stare up into the spectacle, the last showgirl can’t let go, she’s holding onto pleasure (beach) and praying for her big moment, Pamela Anderson plays Shelly Gardner and together they examine:
the longing for fame, the thirst and the fascination
at the expense of a life of commitment and routine
but every decision leads somewhere and once again here the film
takes us to an imagined ending, and
I want to dream like Robbie and Shelly too so I shimmy toward The Killers,
Blackpool and Las Vegas, kindred spirits, working class waltz but
dreaming is allowed here without the humour needed to soften the ambition,
small town English shame is shrunken off the shoulders, and
feathered epaulets placed on, rhinestones attached
That's it, that’s the dream, the possibility at dusk, the sparkle
take my brain out and put me with the stars, lift me up beyond the flats, the terraces, the rubble and let us spin and glide, the broken glass put back together into a disco ball, stardust, sunburst.
Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada!
‘some people come to Vegas and lose everything, that’s just the way it goes,
but let tonight serve as a reminder
sometimes it goes the other way too’
From busboy at the casino to a residency at Caesars Palace
talent is intoxicating, it is sexy, a roulette wheel spin
to rise above your circumstances
red velvet curtains and chairs, wrap me up in gold brocade
her pupils made of confetti, powder cheeks and ruffles, pouting ‘with the cards I am dealt’,
his pinstripe suit shines like nothing has ever shone before, rich brunette hair quiffs perfectly, shining too
slushie pink, desert orange, gradient heat, dustland fairytales, dice rolls, a little luck
stood underneath the palm tree neon glow listening to Hot Fuss and
its chic and tender and glamorous, the lightbulbs and Elvis lettering, the gold lamé of Brandon’s Glasto suit in 2007, these songs come from the yearn of the stomach and the thrust of posturing hips, it shimmers and ponders and looks you in the eyes, knowing it has had you since the first song. It is a courting, a wooing, a leaning into the lure gaze wide.
spotlight shadows larger than life
these boys once were not immune from bravado too like our starlet Robbie, young Brandon mirrored in their song The Man, in moments of doubt chest out and opinions aloft
but soften someday and sit in your doubt for there is love there
I did it my way,
some people are lucky enough to grow beyond a time that their pain is bigger than themselves and
Robbie speaks in 2023 of ‘the big thing that I held on to, was the fact that you guys turned up and come to my shows…then I can't be a bad person because this is the evidence that I need.’
Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t posture for his father anymore,
that he still needs to be loved but not as much by those who caused the wound but
then in rewriting the end of Better Man,
his work addiction laid out in the Netflix documentary,
it seems this man will always look out to the crowd under the glow of a glitter ball and say:
‘thank you for being a wonderful audience tonight and making my dream come true’
Illuminating forever.
