Gig played on 18/09/06

Rewind 15 years. It's 1991 and the first Take That video is being debuted on late night television. The band are writhing around in leather chaps and chainmail, rubbing jelly into gym-toned, Immac-hairless bodies. It's humiliating and the song is trashily cheap, but there's something which holds the attention. In Newcastle, a room full of half-drunk gay men, the clear target market, agree as one. It's that boy, that 17-year-old with the irrepressible energy, the humour and the chirpy grin, the show-stealing force of nature, the charisma bomb. Wonder what his name is?

Fast forward 15 years. It's 2006 and Robbie Williams - the biggest male solo star in Europe, and global mega-brand - has just finished singing an encore that includes "Angels" (a modern standard and the song which lifted him from has-been to gonna-be) and "Kids" (his best all-out pop number, a bobbing, bouncing beast topped off with a killer chorus). He's punching the air and the thousands in the gigantic space of the Milton Keynes Bowl are screaming his name. The fat dancer from Take That has triumphed.

On paper, anyway. Because the lingering memory of tonight's show isn't Williams as victor but as victim. He complains later of "feeling sh*t", and his cracked voice and constant sniffling backs him up, but tonight's performance is uncharacteristically lacklustre, flu or not. He's claimed he is fiercely proud of his forthcoming, experimental album, but performs just one song from it (a giddily entertaining "Rudebox"). This is not the sign of a confident man, and nor is the trapped look on his face as he tackles old number one "Rock DJ".

Of course, Robbie - self styled "king of light entertainment" - is too charismatic and conscientious to be actually boring. Reviving an old trick, he turns "Strong" into a karaoke singalong, complete with vast screens scrolling the words to the crowd, while the oddball, infectious "Tripping" is delivered with verve and panache. Best of all is his version of Take That's "Back For Good", where he drops his old, tediously ironic thrash version for a heartfelt attempt that reminds us what a sublime pop melody it is.

But where previous tours have seen him hammily pulling members out of the crowd, and engaged in gobsh*te bantering, tonight he's mostly aloof and distant. Slower, self-lacerating numbers like "Advertising Space" are delivered with a weariness that is genuinely upsetting and where once it seemed like it would take bulldozers to get him off the stage, tonight he slinks off looking relieved. That 17-year-old seems far away tonight. Fame, fame, fatal fame.

by Jaime Gill