Videos of this performance should be mandatory viewing for all entrants to TV fame shows, serving as both a masterclass in charisma and a public health warning on the poisonous effects of fame. It's clear after the third song, when his tear-streaked face stares speechlessly out at the vast crowd, that this is less a gig than a guided tour around the troubled soul of Robbie Williams. And though it makes for a fascinating place for an evening's holiday, you wouldn't want to live there.
But if the lyrical self flagellation of songs like the maudlin 'Me And My Monkey' and 'Come Undone' are true, and Williams really does despise himself, it's not a feeling shared by his audience. Williams has become a hero here, to teenage boys and fifty year old housewives, all of whom scream their adoration. Talking to fans, it's clear the bond they feel they have with Williams. They believe he's their friend.
From the moment he takes the stage to the brash 'Let Me Entertain You', Williams is a whirling parody of a rock star, posing, preening and prancing. He plays the audience better than he later plays his guitar, leading rowdy chants, goading girls to strip and brilliantly parodying stars from Freddie Mercury to Justin Timberlake. It's a twenty-four carat superstar performance, with more humour and personality than Madonna, Justin and Britney could rustle up between them.
But if it's entertaining, it's also uncomfortable, as when Williams weeps and tells the audience "you've been so much better than me." And if his performance is often manipulative, his bitter irony undercuts the gesture. He brings his mother onstage for a schmaltzy kiss, then ridicules the way she walks in front of 120,000 people. There is something so quintessentially British about this man, whose self regard is only equalled by his self disgust, that it's no surprise America remains indifferent.
The other problem with this pantomime approach is that his songs are relegated to support act. The point is best illustrated by 'Strong', tonight sung in a karaoke version complete with words on huge TV screens to help the audience. It's an impressive stunt, but obliterates the subtleties of one of Williams' lovelier melodies.
Only when he plays it straight do his songs really bloom, revealing Williams' rare talent at writing songs with true universal appeal, a talent ironically inherited from Oasis. 'She's The One' is a gorgeous Elton John swoon, while 'Kids' is a powerhouse pop number that turns the crowd into a single bouncing organism. The highlight, however, is the vicious melancholia of 'No Regrets', dedicated to Take That. As a statement of defiance and self-hatred, it sums Williams up.
Williams' journey to fame has been stranger and more winding than most, taking in the indignities of boyband membership and a list of addictions that reads more like a medical dictionary than a biography. The big question is what next, now that Williams has lost his co-songwriter and his music grows ever staler. Can he re-invent himself once more, or is he doomed to the law of diminishing returns? It's hard to picture a future where this huge personality may be banished to smaller stages, but as Williams well knows, fame can be a cruel mistress.
