Take That
Take That & Party

"Gary ? Nigel. Listen, that tape... those tracks, whose are they?" "Uh... mine, they're mine, sir..." "Yes, alright, but who made them for you? The author, I mean..." "Me, always me, sir..." "Okay, but who helped you produce them? To program and record them?" "Uh... me, Mr. Martin-Smith, always me..." "Ah. You should come back, then. Here, to my studio." "When...?" "Immediately, come immediately."

The Take That, probably the group with the highest number of record sales in the history of Britain, was born this way, in 1990. From an audition, from a table, like all boy bands. A scouting agency is looking for five cute guys for yada yada yada. Gary Barlow was the first to answer. He did not impress with his appearance. Dressed like a nerd, rather pale, chubby, he resembled an uncool '80s kid. They dismissed him quickly, okay we'll let you know, but the kid left behind a tape, containing three of his demos. "Girl," lost over time somewhere, "Waiting Around," a colossal mess later becoming a b-side, and "A Million Love Songs," which entered the UK top 10 a couple of years later.

Nigel Martin-Smith had a long and clinical eye. ""The fact that you compose the songs, Gaz, will give credibility to the project". It worked. And the second prophecy also worked, announced in the presence of the other four boys who emerged from a tough audition. Howard Donald and Jason Orange, painters dedicated to dancing with already a small group of girls following them, Mark Owen, a failed banker with a childhood as a model, and Robert Williams from Stoke-On-Trent, at the time not yet Robbie, a cosmic joker with a pop-rock streak that time would bring out with lashes. "In five years we will no longer stand each other, we will hate each other. But we will be rich". Martin-Smith taught.

No alchemy, then, no particular secret. "Take That & Party" (1991), the debut album of Take That, was born this way. Strategy and pedal. Performances in the gay clubs that Martin-Smith had frequented for a while (the manager came out immediately, with the boys. "Lads, I’m gay. Any problems?"), performances in schools, micro-concerts, breakfast appearances, because when you’re not famous yet, they don’t call you to the national lottery. Fan club, letters, gadgets, teddy bears. It happened that the wavering, unripe, and sugary talent of frontman Gary Barlow, but with solid foundations, struck a chord. Not immediately, though. The first single, "Do What U Like," an incredible failure from which we only save the instrumental intro, was a flop. But who cares, they thought: we are just starting, after all, the screaming girls were on the rise, so... The second, "Promises," another silly one, so-so: it went to #46, not bad at all. Then it happened, according to the writer's opinion, the thing that can often exacerbate a false start. The third single, "Once You’ve Tasted Love," composed by Barlow at 16 in his room, was beautiful, tough, sensible. Musically, it stood above. But oops, it flopped again. #45 or thereabouts. What do we do? Nowadays, you would already be finished, brother. But back then, there was more patience. And Martin-Smith was a volcano: if black doesn’t work, go with white. Let’s cover, right? "It Only Takes A Minute," a cover of the Tavares, boomed. From then on, Take That lost touch with reality because success overwhelmed them.

We can discuss the songs. "I Found Heaven," which the five hated from the beginning, was imposed by the label. Cute, danceable. "A Million Love Songs" finally gave Gary what was Gary’s: number #7, the DJ praising him, grandma and mom sitting in the living room crying. Barlow was more credible when tackling "Give Good Feelings," which musically has solid legs; the lyrics, dear god, come on, you know how they are: I love you, I want you, I think of you, stay with me. But the guy, synth, and piano in hand, knew how to do it. Also listen to, for instance, "Why Can’t I Wake Up With You?" original version, or "Never Want To Let You Go."

Trying not to focus on what will be (Take That, like them or not, will be a big deal), the debut album consists of a handful of raw, poorly mixed tracks. Moreover, the contribution of the future god Williams is almost nonexistent: it is not him singing in "I Found Heaven" and "Could It Be Magic," as almost all fans believe, but Billy Griffin, a squire of another arranger for boy bands, Ian Levine, who can trace Robbie's voice in a dignified and faithful manner. They tried and tried again, in the studio, but it was a continuous shaking of heads. Robert was trying, he put all of himself into it, but he wasn't ready yet. Peace. The torment began here, the hearth of anger that, years later, would lead him to insult Martin-Smith in almost every other song and to mock Barlow when no one wanted him anymore. ""I am gay, Robbie was more so than me. Among us, he was the dominant character. Hence his anger" (Martin-Smith, around 2005). Well well.

Let’s put it this way: "Take That & Party" is a product that does not have the requirements to sell and mark an era. It is a clumsy but resounding scream, an uncertain step but leaving a still fresh imprint, a warning to boy bands that, at the time, were straying from the path, like Bros and New Kids On The Block. "Cmon cmon cmon cmon cmon take that! And party!" ("Take That & Party", track #13). Did I make the point clear?