The Pop Star Who Shagged Me

Interview by Jonathan Bernstein

LOS ANGELES--Robbie Williams is standing in a Jacuzzi at the West Hollywood Sunset Marquis Hotel, his crimson Speedo floating several feet away, fluffing his semi-flacid member into consciousness. This is partly for the amusement of his band members, who are sprawled nearby on pool chairs sipping tea, and partly to increase his self-esteem around the two porn starts who will join him momentarily in the Jacuzzi for a magazine photo shoot.

Earlier today, it was announced the the 25-year old Williams, Britian's multi-platinum clown prince of pop, has been nominated for six Brit Awards--the U.K. equivalent of the Grammys. It's definitive proof of the pan-generational appeal of the former Take That member once dismissed as an unstable, substance-abusing, former-teenybop plaything. Now Capitol Records, which signed Williams last year, is embarking on a full blown campaign to introduce him, and his debut album, "The Ego has Landed," to an unsuspecting American public. Later tonight, Williams will play a showcase for the Capitol minions and a selection of L.A. media types thought to be sympathetic to his cause.

"I'm not going to have a soft-on in front of all these girls!" Williams shouts. "Come on, little Robbie. Don't fail me now!"

"Robbie, hide your sac!" commands the photographer. In retort, Williams yanks his dick between his thighs, stopping short of trying to plug it up his behind. As he flails around in the water, Michelle, a model-slash-actress he hooked up with in a bar two days previously, turns up poolside. ("She just thought I was a nice, funny guy. It wasn't until we went out that I told her, 'By the way, I've sold four million records.'") Williams pulls on his Speedo backwards and greets her warmly, one testicle drooping out of his trunks. Michelle avers her eyes, a position she will maintain for the next two hours as Williams mugs tirelessly for the camera while flanked by Vivid Video vets Janine Lindemulder and Julia Ann, known to their fans as "Blondage." The women wrap their thighs around William's neck and proffer their breasts for his gratified inspection. After the session, Williams politely shakes hands with the still-naked actresses and says, "Pleasure working with you."

Back in his hotel room, the message light is blinking. Williams hits the speakerphone. "Hello, Robbie, Elton here. Congratulations on the nominations. I'm really happy for you. We've got to get together soon. Bye, darling." Surprised and touched by the message and undoubtedly gratified that the press in the room have just received impormptu confirmation of his status as a member of Britian's pop aristocracy, Williams slumpsdown on a couch for a pre-showcase nap. As MTV lulls him to sleep, Korn's "Got the Life" video is playing on Total Request Live. "Is this what I'm going to have to do to make it in America?" he signs. The Backstreet Boys are up next. Williams pronounces them "the best boy band ever." 98 degrees, however are not so fortunate. "Look at them. How can you ever cross over from that?" he snorts, meaning, "How can you ever hope to graduate from being just another assembly line boy band to being a magnetic and controversial pop celebrity like me." He says this with more pity than malice. His eyes slide shut midway through their song.

At his showcase in the tiny North Hollywood club Lucky Seven, Williams makes it playing that he's more Vegas act than rock dude. Vamping his way through the Bond-theme-esque "Millenium" and the epic ballad "Angels," he winks and waves at crowd members, tosses the mic in the air, and busts out the time honered Elvis karate-stance. "People over here hear my accent and ask me about the Sex Pistols and the Clash," Williams tells the audience, "I don't know shit about any of that. Frank Sinatra's my hero. Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Nat Kind Cole--everyone I love is American. Apart from my mum. And I heard she's had some American in her. Thank god she's 6,000 miles away. No, but I love my mum...."

The crowd laps it up. Admittedly, the Capitol audience quotient would give Williams a rousing ovation if he correctly pronounced the word, "green," but, in this instance, his self-mocking performance is winning enough to merit their enthousiasm. He even manages to assault a couple of tear ducts by dedicating a new song, "It's Hurting Me, Too" to "someone who broke up with me over Christmas," an oblique reference to his on-again-off-again fiancee, All Saints' Nicole Appleton. Date du jour Michelle, who is sitting in the audience, once again adverts her eyes.

After the show, Capitol honcho Roy Lott says, "I feel very positive about having success with Robbie in the States. The challenge is, because he's so special, we have to make sure everyone understands his uniqueness." This may be more of a challenge than Lott realizes. After Williams has left the stage, a passing journalist with narrow-to-nonexistent terms of reference mutters, "I don't know, you've already got Everlast doing that kind of thing...."

The next day, as Williams checks out of the hotel, he declares the pampered anonymity of his L.A. stopover "the most relaxing time I've had since I've been famous." But don't expect Britian's biggest pop star to go too long without working. When the desk clerk hands him yet another congratulatory fax about his Brit nomination clean-sweep, Williams spreads his arms wide and, attracting the notice to the entire lobby, announces, "It's official, I'm gay!"