By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Williams's first U.S. show, last Tuesday at the Bowery Ballroom, was ecstatically received but how could it not be, with mostly media types, expats, and Anglophiles in attendance, all disproportionately responsive to cheap pomo thrills. Introduced by the Star Wars fanfare, Robbie was ruthlessly, cheesily showbiz from the get-go but in a knowing, within-quotation-marks fashion. He did an endearingly terrible Eminem bit ("My name is . . . Robbie Williams"). He changed lyrics to flatter the locals, never mind that "Your cool New York sun" makes little sense. He got everyone to sing along to, apropos of nothing, "Hey Jude." And for "Angels," the aforementioned sledgehammer sob song, he left the chorus to the crowd, and whipped out a cigarette lighter.
It's not as much fun without Robbie in the room. His first American release, The Ego Has Landed (which samples his two multiplatinum European LPs), is easy-enough listening, a big, brash, tuneful pastiche, the best stuff being the most smartly derivative. "No Regrets" has the tart eloquence and lush melancholy of a Pet Shop Boys ballad (in fact, Neil Tennant sings backup). "Let Me Entertain You" is a glammy, hammy, rock-operatic monster that, even on record, neatly embodies his chest-out-cocky/hands-on-hips-effete dialectic.
And yet, for all Williams's calculated archness, it's a primal imperative that takes over live. His nominal statement of intent, "Let Me Entertain You" (which invariably opens his shows), is the tip-off. The sentiment isn't cordial, but frantic and imploring. It's really as simple and as touching as this: Robbie Williams just wants to be loved. Dennis Lim
"Are you all having fun? Because fun's what it's all about!" the male MC-DJ from Z-100 assured the crowd of hopeful fronted-by-a-woman acts and their supporters at the Lilith Fair Acoustic Talent Search in Westbeth Theater last Wednesday. But as the auditions began this information didn't seem to fit with the Sarah McLachlanesque parsing of inner emotional states and broken relationships that was the content of most of the entries.
Since each of the 20 acts got to audition with just one song, and "acoustic" here appeared to mean "any instrument onstage except a drum kit or a turntable," there was a lot of setup time, and hence a need for a lot of the "Are you having fun?" patter and flinging of free hats and T-shirts into the crowd. As the evening settled into a rhythm of psychic pain and commerce, the modulation that might have been provided with a funny song, a novelty tune, or an unpredicted cover came only from those acts far off the beaten path of internal-parsing-accompanied-by-guitar-etc. So as the night progressed I found myself relieved by the acts that didn't fit the a cappellaites, the acoustic rapper, and the loungey trio. Until I caught myself and remembered the gaps of age and gender that separated me from audience and auditioners.
Sure enough, although I had only noted two sisterhood acknowledgments from the stage ("It's great to be here with all these amazing women"), the crowd was nodding thoughtfully to each other's songs. Not bored, they were paying attention, encouraged and encouraging. And that included the rather large contingent of male backups. For the record, there were, in fact, no backup women musicians, although there were female duos, trios, and quintets. There were very few eccentric but lovable eyeglasses, hairdos, or clothes, and only one nod to c&w, but there were two cellists. The winners were Amy Fairchild, Rachel Sase, and Jenny Bruce, and I think one of them gets to open the acoustic stage at the two area Lilith shows this summer but all three won that new best friend of a struggling singer-songwriter: their own Web site!
After the winners were announced the good-natured crowd bubbled out onto Bank Street. I may have begun by finding the mixture of partying and introspection peculiar. But when I thought about it later, I had to admit that being allowed to pursue the dream, if only for a night, that probing your inner life and personal relationships could make you rich and famous, is . . . well, fun. Tom Smucker
Hating the Obvious
The Delgados are trying to escape the clichés of British indie-rock by aiming for nonobviousness in sound and form. Their stylistic contortions work on their second album, Peloton (Beggars Banquet), but they hit some snags onstage. At Fez last Monday, the Glasgow quartet-plus-friends guided fluffy little tunes on their way with the aid of a couple of auxiliary string players and a flautist, then let their very electric core group claw and snap through the softer timbres. The extra instruments thicken and flavor the guitar tone on the record; here, they simply got drowned out.