Pitchfork

Not many people know this, but Robbie Williams was a former member of the ill- fated Spice Guys, an embarrassing and very hush- hush failed endeavor of that Tom Selleck of Corporate Tyranny, Richard Branson. The idea was scrapped after a panel of executives complained that the Spice Guys-- Brain- Tumor, Crouton, Slacker, Date- Rape, Cop- Killer and Silly- Ass Spice (aka Williams)-- were too masculine and that their "breasts were still in development." Instead, this initial blueprint gave way to the more lucrative idea of what we all know and worship as the Spice Girls. This isn't to say that the handsome Williams wouldn't have fit in nicely with a little makeup and some strategically- placed silicon implants.

In truth, though, Williams fills the void created by the sad and long- lamented disappearance of pop- chart weenies like Rick Astley, ABC, and Corey Hart. As you may know, Astley, ABC, and Hart supposedly vanished into a suckhole leading to the fiery nether regions of Valhalla, thus fulfilling their respective Faustian bargains. Much like the hackwork of these doomed pop souls, Williams' songs boast little originality; it's as if they're constructed piecemeal from countless easily- recognizable bits of modern Billboard history. This is sampling, if you will, without the aid of one of those sampling thingies.

But seriously, folks! Williams was actually part of a semi- successful outfit of British popsters called Take That. Although they managed a certain degree of success in England, Take That could never stir up much interest in the States. Maybe their failure was due in part to the fact that their music didn't quite resemble the trying- desperately- to- sound- American punk- pop of Bush. Nor did their sound embody the opposite extreme of over- the- top Saxon pop purity displayed by bands like Oasis and the Verve.

If American audiences know what's good for 'em, this compendium of Williams's U.K. output will be as equally unwelcome on our shores as other hallmarks of English culture: blood pudding, high taxes, tea time, Camilla Parker- Bowles, Rowan Atkinson, etc. Then again, now that Jesus Jones has been mercifully AWOL for years, and Oasis' reservoir of stolen ideas has dried up completely, it's only natural that a guy like Williams should be next in line to carry the torch of ultra- commercial Brit-pop pomposity across the Atlantic once more.

Admittedly, the innocent Oasis rip- off, "Lazy," goes fairly easy on the ears. And Williams' vocals aren't too sickening if consumed in small doses. I mean, all he really wants to do, as mentioned in "Lazy," is "have a jolly good time." Of course, this basically echoes Sheryl Crow's deceptively simple philosophy, "All I wanna do is have some fun." Only Williams' version is filtered through that regal argot known as the Queen's English.

Alright, all xenophobic sarcasm aside, there's simply a point at which Williams' delivery becomes much too bombastic, and he lapses into lyrical overkill and typically English vocal hysterics. "Let Me Entertain You" is a giggle- inducing bit of self- advertising, as Williams takes the world's stage and delivers his illuminating soliloquy to the lost, lonely billions on Earth: "You got to get high/ Before you experience the lows." This aphorism, surprisingly, would be the exact inverse of Steve Miller's Bunyan- esque belief that "you gotta go through hell before you get to heaven."

It's not that Master Robbie is totally bereft of songwriting instinct or ability, it's just that he takes the concept of simple pop music and blows it way out of proportion. Like Michael Jackson or Abba, most of what he probably considers straight- forward pop actually circulates in the realm of some sort of hyper- or meta- pop fairyland, to the extent that Wings' Silly Love Songs might sound like a Leadbelly album in comparison.

"Old Before I Die" is the closest Williams comes to actually "rocking," in case you're interested. And of course, he has to ruin the effect with his positivist strictly- for- the- kids message, attempting, I assume, to come up with a better alternative to Pete Townshend's 20- year- old wish for premature death on "My Generation." "I hope I live to see the day the pope gets high," sings Williams with utmost conviction. I think I speak for all of us when I say, "Ugh."

The Donna Summer disco- string section and robotic hip-hop beats on "Millennia" are bound to make even the Robert Stigwoods of the world gasp, "Gawd, that's too above- board poppy for me, thanks. I'll stick to producing Bee Gees roots- disco." Here, Williams achieves the near- impossible by fusing modern American- style commercial foresight with a deeply rooted determinist worldview passed down from his lyrical forefathers, Chaucer and Shakespeare: "We've got stars directing our fate/ And we pray that it's not too late/ 'Cause we know we're fallin' from grace/ Mil-le-nni-uh!" The mere mention of the Millennia ought to make for about 250,000 units sold alone. Very timely, indeed. Maybe the term "stars" in this song is a euphemism for "a huge, corrupt, American record company staffed by petty thieves and P.T. Barnum- like exploiters" directing Williams' fate. In that case, who the hell wouldn't be worried about the future?

Anyway, here's a quick, economic rundown of what to expect from the rest of The Ego Has Landed. "No Regrets" sounds like Wham!, or possibly, the Pet Shop Boys. "Strong" sounds like the song Williams recorded just after auditing Matthew Sweet's 100% Fun. "Angels" is pink feather- boa'd Elton John mishap with a studio- cloistered guitar chappie doing his best imitation of the Quiet Beatle on lead. "I can't believe it's not Harrison!" exclaims Williams, sounding, as usual, like an advertisement for something. "Jesus in a Camper Van" is sort of a "Mr. Bojangles," for the Ecstasy/ Rave social set. "She's the One" is Bob Seger's "Night Moves" with a few minor alterations. As a bonus, when "She's the One" is played backwards, it begs to be used in an upcoming Freddie Prinze, Jr. movie. And finally, "Win Some, Lose Some" sounds strangely similar to that Icicle Works fluff- pop classic, "Birds Fly (Whisper to a Scream)."

So there you go, sports fans. The ego has landed, indeed. But why couldn't this ego could have gotten conveniently lost in the fog somewhere off Martha's Vineyard? Or if only it could have mistakenly landed in the Black Hills Forest and been terrorized into submission by the designer rock formations and hanging twigs of the infamous Blair Horticulturist.