Pharrell Williams is in a bullish, buoyant mood. A bra thrown on stage by a particularly enthusiastic fan has just hit him mid-rap, and every tiny pelvic shimmy elicits Beatlemania-style screams. But despite appearances, all is not well in the court of King Williams.
It is odd watching a bleeding-edge maverick marooning himself in the mainstream, half-waving, half-drowning. The sci-fi synths, clipped rhythm fills and pared-down atmospherics that saw Pharrell and his Neptunes partner Chad Hugo feted as pop geniuses are now so extensively copied that they have become part of that conventional middle ground the pair set out to lay waste to.
Pharrell does nothing wrong on stage, but doesn't do very much right either. He plays the opening riffs and choruses from hits he's produced for others - Nelly's Hot in Herre, N.O.R.E.'s Nothin, Snoop Dogg's Drop It Like It's Hot - but each snippet is played separately when a seamless medley would have had seismic impact. His band smoulder when tackling the second line polyrhythms of How Does It Feel? and Raspy Shit, but only seem totally comfortable with Lapdance's limiting balls-out rawk.
So far, Williams has had it all his own way. He's worked with whomever he pleases, conferring cool on the least credible simply by association, and fans and critics alike have indulged him. The comparative failure of his solo album In My Mind was the inevitable result - by no means as bad as scathing reviews maintained, it invited a backlash because of Pharrell's perceived hubris, and a degree of assumed smugness.
All is not lost. Williams has loyal fans, customers for his silky beats, and talent to burn. He has even hired Roots drummer ?uestlove to rebuild In My Mind from the ground up, which certainly shows willing. But to transcend cult stardom and attain the legendary status his innovation and imagination merit, he needs to take a leaf out of a certain Irish rock band's book, and dream it all up again.
