Fact #176464
When:
Short story:
Robbie Williams plays at Westpoint, Exeter, England, UK, Europe.Full article:
Slap bang in the hinterlands of Devon this place is a rock’n’roll barn with a difference. The difference being that it actually is a barn - concrete floor, breeze block walls, corrugated roofs and all. Hail then, Robbie Williams, who performs the miracle of making eight thousand punters all but forget that they’ve paid £18.50 to be herded inside what he himself describes as “a cowshed”, only marginally warmer than outside, and stand for three hours under industrial downlights in the presence of rock aristocracy.
Before Robbie can work his miracle, however, Glasgow’s Supernaturals labour manfully to divert the shivering mass with sparky three-minute power-pop gems that are received well down the front, but whose joie-de-vivre fails to rouse the huddled, shivering knots of girls (the ratio is about five to one) at the back of the shed. The Divine Comedy fare better, partly because they’re musically tighter, partly because Neil Hannon is a natural showman, but mainly because during their recent hit National Express a chunky figure emerges from the darkness stage right to join Hannon briefly at the mike. It is, of course, the Robster, and the temperature suddenly rises as the air is rent asunder by shrill screams of ecstasy.
Even so, the bulk of the crowd is still clad in padded jerkins, fleeces and anoraks when Robbie returns for his own set, to the spirit-lifting strains of the Star Wars soundtrack. “I’m Robbie,” he tells us. “I entertain.” Cue Let Me Entertain You, thundered out by a band whose every member can and does jump higher than Pete Townshend and never miss a note. In the next few minutes Rob sings, waves, points, dances the can can, skips, swaggers like King Louie in Jungle Book, runs on the spot, throws in a few Presley swivels and ostentatiously rams a hand inside his pants to scratch his bollocks. By the end of the song, we’re sold and, better than that, we’re warm. Then he moves into high gear.
It would be easy to dismiss the next ninety minutes as just another top-class pop showman working a loyal crowd, except that it’s much more, because the relationship between Robbie and his fans is bolstered by the confessional, autobiographical release of songs like No Regrets and Old Before I Die, so that the show becomes his too much too soon life told in music. It’s all cranked higher by superb visuals on the giant video backdrop, by the motorised talking toilet, by the cute costume change from t-shirt and baggies to James Bond suit for Millennium, and by the inevitable audience singalong on Angels. Ultimately, though, it’s about Robbie Williams, cheeky beggar. And we’ve always been suckers for a cheeky beggar.
)Source : Johnny Black review in ????? magazine)
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Before Robbie can work his miracle, however, Glasgow’s Supernaturals labour manfully to divert the shivering mass with sparky three-minute power-pop gems that are received well down the front, but whose joie-de-vivre fails to rouse the huddled, shivering knots of girls (the ratio is about five to one) at the back of the shed. The Divine Comedy fare better, partly because they’re musically tighter, partly because Neil Hannon is a natural showman, but mainly because during their recent hit National Express a chunky figure emerges from the darkness stage right to join Hannon briefly at the mike. It is, of course, the Robster, and the temperature suddenly rises as the air is rent asunder by shrill screams of ecstasy.
Even so, the bulk of the crowd is still clad in padded jerkins, fleeces and anoraks when Robbie returns for his own set, to the spirit-lifting strains of the Star Wars soundtrack. “I’m Robbie,” he tells us. “I entertain.” Cue Let Me Entertain You, thundered out by a band whose every member can and does jump higher than Pete Townshend and never miss a note. In the next few minutes Rob sings, waves, points, dances the can can, skips, swaggers like King Louie in Jungle Book, runs on the spot, throws in a few Presley swivels and ostentatiously rams a hand inside his pants to scratch his bollocks. By the end of the song, we’re sold and, better than that, we’re warm. Then he moves into high gear.
It would be easy to dismiss the next ninety minutes as just another top-class pop showman working a loyal crowd, except that it’s much more, because the relationship between Robbie and his fans is bolstered by the confessional, autobiographical release of songs like No Regrets and Old Before I Die, so that the show becomes his too much too soon life told in music. It’s all cranked higher by superb visuals on the giant video backdrop, by the motorised talking toilet, by the cute costume change from t-shirt and baggies to James Bond suit for Millennium, and by the inevitable audience singalong on Angels. Ultimately, though, it’s about Robbie Williams, cheeky beggar. And we’ve always been suckers for a cheeky beggar.
)Source : Johnny Black review in ????? magazine)