Watch
the second part of the video
A pop track plays at bird-scaring volume as four men walk back and forth
across a rooftop in downtown Los Angeles, singing to the sky. A helicopter
circles noisily overhead, its onboard cameraman documenting their every move
and expression. Here is the biggest and best of all Britboybands, the one
that came back to be a man band, filming the video for Greatest Day,
first single from a new album that by Christmas will be inescapable in
British high streets and on radio. “Mad, this,” notes one ripe Mancunian
voice in a moment of quiet between takes. Looking out across the expanse of
asphalt and assessing the 30-storey drop to the street below (there’s no
wall or barrier to prevent anyone just stepping off into infinity), three
similar accents murmur their assent. But then the music starts up again and
the helicopter prepares to swoop back in. Dutifully, Take That go back to
work.
They are unlikely lads to be getting the full Hollywood treatment. “We haven’t
seen one of these since 1992, and even then we said, ‘Next time, please just
send a van,’” commented Gary Barlow earlier of the stretch limo that brought
them to the shoot. (Tomorrow, at their insistence, a people carrier will
replace it.) Laudably self-aware and unstarry, they’re only too conscious of
the irony of their being back in the world of vast promotional budgets and
drivers kept on hold. Yes, they sold millions, first as a five-piece with
Robbie Williams, then for a short while without him. But as recently as
three years ago, they were washed up commercially, the glory days behind
them. They had gone out at the top, certainly, but respective solo projects
then foundered and record deals were soon withdrawn. As Williams, then in
the ascendancy, gloated, his former mates found themselves adjusting to life
as pop has-beens, yesterday’s heroes.
The world of work is a perilous place these days. Success and status can be
here today, gone even before tomorrow, all privileges withdrawn. But nowhere
is that more true than in the entertainment industry, as Take That’s lead
singer and songwriter Barlow will tell you. Even though it was he who
precipitated the end of TT phase one by announcing his decision to go it
alone, he did not escape the hurt. You might even judge that he felt it the
most keenly. In 1996 and ’97, he enjoyed two successive No 1 singles in the
UK, Forever Love and Love Won’t Wait. A first album sold
well. But by the time its follow-up was released, Williams was beginning a
run of hits (Angels, Let Me Entertain You, Millennium, No
Regrets) that rendered him ubiquitous. The Robbie image was cocky, edgy,
knowing, Gary’s safe and suburban by comparison. Unceremoniously, he was
dropped.
Humiliated, but still believing he had a future as a recording artist, he
looked around for another deal. No interest. “Then I talked to promoters
about doing a small-scale tour.” Again, no interest. “I explored every
possible avenue, even shopping around songs for other people to record, but
within a couple of months it became clear that there was no way forward for
me. When you’re hot and are having hits, the industry can’t get enough. When
you’re cold, it’s like having some disease. No one wants any association
with you at all. It’s as if you’ve been fired for stealing out of the till.
It’s instant, brutal. You’re unemployable.” To be rejected by the business
he loved was, he says, crushing. “You don’t even get the gold watch and the
handshake. But that’s not the point. My issue was that I wanted to work and
couldn’t. That was the most upsetting thing for me, music being all I know.”
Williams’ continuing ascent only added to Barlow’s misery, causing him to
retreat for a full five months behind the gates of the antique-filled
Cheshire mansion (it has long since been replaced by a London flat) he had
bought with his songwriting royalties. “It’s one thing getting dropped, but
what it filters down to is walking along the street and having people shout,
‘How’s Robbie?’ Or you go in a shop and they put on his CD the moment they
see you. That’s what made me reclusive. There’s a meanness in Britain.
People relish your situation. You end up embarrassed to be who you are. It
got to the point where I wouldn’t even use my credit card over the phone,
’cos I was ashamed to say my name. It was an odd, depressing, very negative
time.” Feeling his only option was to leave the country, and with his wife
and newborn son in tow, he relocated here to LA.
Life in a rented apartment was anonymous, soothing, sunny. “I didn’t wear
socks for eight months. The weather was always fine. I could walk around the
supermarket unnoticed. We even made friends with the neighbours, who knew
nothing of who I was and had no fixed opinion of me. I loved that. They were
spending time with us just because we’re nice people and they enjoyed our
company, nothing more.” The sojourn wasn’t entirely therapeutic, though. In
the old Take That days, Barlow’s well-known love of eating and resultant,
comparative chunkiness had meant that a variety of unflattering nicknames
was bestowed on him by pop columnists and internet gossip sites: Big Gaz,
Fat Gary, Gary Who Ate All the Pies. And with time on his hands and no
pressure to look his fittest for photo shoots and TV appearances, he found
himself piling on the pounds.
Today (he is sitting by the pool of the band’s hotel wearing only swimming
trunks as we talk), he is a super-toned and tanned version of that paler,
porkier former self. The transformation has not been easy, however, and
staying at his new fighting weight will be harder still. “I just can’t
control myself around food, if I’m honest,” he says, looking without
enthusiasm at the newly arrived plate of leaves and vegetables that
represents his brunch. “Anything fatty or high-calorie is out. Mine is
definitely a future without fries. In the studio, while making the album,
the others would be dialling out late at night for burgers and chocolate
while I’d be there with my tuna salad and protein bar thinking, ‘This is
s***!’ I mean, look how thin they are. It isn’t fair. But life isn’t fair,
and if this [he looks again at his plate] is what it’s going to take for me
to stay looking like this, then I can cope with it.”
Returning to live in the UK in 2001, Barlow found he was 50lb heavier than
when he left. “All self-inflicted through comfort eating, of course. I was a
mess. When I finally stepped on the scales, the proof was inescapable: 16st
8lb! I thought, ‘I really need to do something here…’” At his wife’s
insistence, he saw a doctor, “who gave me the hard facts, no beating around
the bush. I was well into the obese bracket given my height, with all the
attendant health risks. That’s pretty upsetting news and was a definite
wake-up call. Obviously, you’ve got a massive climb ahead of you, being that
heavy. In fact, it’s hard to see how you’ll ever reach the top.” It has
taken a five-year programme of careful eating and regular exercise to win
him his current hunk status, and, as if to demonstrate his ongoing resolve,
he picks up his fork and begins purposefully to eat his greens.
Of his gradual career rehabilitation, he says, “It didn’t happen overnight by
any means, but people were kind enough to start giving me bits and pieces
[songwriting commissions, production work] here and there. And of course it
was helped by the fact that, three or four years on, our records were still
on the radio. It was like they thought, ‘Yeah, he used to write great stuff.
I wonder what he’s doing now?’, and then picked up the phone to give me a
call.”
In other words, there was a requisite period of time to be endured in the pop
wilderness; only after it might he be welcomed back into the fold. And even
when that happened, it didn’t occur to Barlow that he might ever take the
spotlight again. “I didn’t sing a note in six years, not even on a demo. I
locked the door on that side of me, told everyone around me I didn’t want to
do it any more. I even convinced myself that it was true.”
The other members of Take That had not been having an easy time of it, either.
For Jason Orange, a quietly reflective man who admits to having had
self-esteem issues (only he of the four did not attempt a solo career), the
end of TT had come as a relief. “When I first joined the band I was mad for
it. I kept a scrapbook of all our magazine front covers. I bought into the
idea wholesale. But ten years on, I found I loved being a private person
again [he travelled the world for two years after the split]. I loved
walking through town unrecognised, unmolested. To be honest, I think fame is
s***. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. I know it’s a huge aspiration for a
lot of young people these days, but really I can’t think of one redeeming
feature it has other than that of a quick ego caress or being able to jump
the queue at a club. Otherwise, it sucks.”
