In a muddy field in 1998, Robbie Williams won over Glastonbury festival with an energetic performance of Let Me Entertain You and a sly dig at his old band, Take That, via a mocking cover of their Back for Good. "Last time I came here, I got sacked," he said, referring to his ill-fated turn as Noel Gallagher's boozy mate. "Thank fuck for that."

At this point Williams's fate as a solo artist looked to have been successfully sealed, and for the years in which he produced No 1 hit after No 1 hit, it was. So who among us could have predicted, just over 10 years later, the extent to which the tables would be turned? Take That ended 2008 with one of the biggest albums of the year while unsold copies of the 35-year-old singer's last solo record, Rudebox, were infamously used to pave the roads of China. It would take a cold heart indeed not to feel sympathy for Williams in this spectacular reversal of roles, not least because he never quite appears to have come to grips with exactly what happened. Reality Killed the Video Star is littered with references to his fall from grace, most of which hinge on the premise that someone or something else is truly responsible for his diminishing popularity.

Last Days of Disco, an unashamed leap on the 80s synth revival bandwagon, features the chorus: "don't call it a comeback... I thought it was easy, they came and took it away from us", and in opener Morning Sun he sings, "Message to the troubadour, the world don't love him any more." Fortunately this preoccupation doesn't dominate the album. Difficult for Weirdos channels the Pet Shop Boys while applauding teenage boys brave enough to wear make-up, and the unexpectedly touching Somewhere offers an interlude not unlike an aside from a musical, in which Williams tells his listener "someone, somewhere loves you". If there's a theme here it's not obvious, but it turns out Williams can be quite interesting when he moves off the topic of himself.

For the most part, Reality... swings between the mawkish strings and piano overproduction which Williams has seemed overly attached to ever since 1998's Bond-inspired Millennium, and flashes of genuine pop frivolity, for which he likely has producer Trevor Horn to thank. You Know Me verges on doo-wop, while Do You Mind begins with classic rock guitar reminiscent of Free or Bad Company. Admittedly, on paper this sounds truly dreadful, but these moments provide a welcome relief from the singer's navel-gazing, and remind us what he sounded like before self-obsession overwhelmed his music.