Funny. For all the years of attempts to undermine, undervalue, and underrate Lily Allen – from her first label sidelining her, to harsh judgments of her appearance and behavior, to claims she was reliant on this producer or that person – precious few pop presences have aged more defiantly.
Sure, it hasn’t always been graceful, from stumbles to the somewhat uncertain fumbling of Sheezus, but that’s all part of what makes Allen great: amidst all the perfected, market-tested, cautious personas, she’s remained a remarkably human presence, entirely unafraid to take big swings, speak her mind, and be, refreshingly, well, flat out clumsy from time to time.
So, then, it was a true pleasure to witness her fully grow into her properly “grown” career with 2018’s No Shame. That album felt (and still feels) underrated, but its best moments, those of an unguarded, flawed woman dealing with the woes of her identity and life in general (see “Higher” and “Family Man” in particular) now feel like something of a preamble for her latest work.
Indeed, while its predecessor certainly offered glimpses into her private life, nothing could prepare her most ardent fans for the completely unvarnished, beautiful, hot mess that is West End Girl. It’s not real exaggeration to call this what it is: the most divorced album possible.
As Allen seemed to enjoy new career successes, a burgeoning stage career, accolades, the works, her marriage was rapidly deteriorating. Naturally, the man in question – David Harbour, of Stranger Things, Marvel, and so on fame – makes it all a bit tabloid tantalizing, something the songwriting here manages to both toy with and entirely ignore. Allen simply doesn’t care how much that aspect of it all blows up, implodes, or so on: this is simply her story to tell. The individuals involved made those choices. They, and she herself, have to live with them. And, through the salvo of West Side Girl, we live alongside them.
The album was announced a mere week before release, when Allen stated she had written more personally than ever before. It was a promising notion, but it could have cynically been somewhat dismissed as typical artist PR hype speak. As it turns out, if anything, she was underselling it.
From the moment the album begins with its title track, Lily Allen is wearily, and a bit desperately, dragging it all out onto the table. It might occasionally dive into emotional mania, but by and large, it’s a desperation born of months of talking at a wall, the desperation of baring your soul and receiving sheepish shrugs.
“West End Girl” starts things off rather gently, with the couple moving to New York, gradually offering the first sign of things to come: when Allen receives a role in a play, her partner expresses disbelief, putting down her perceived lack of talent with one dismissive reply. With the simple aside of “I thought that that was quite strange” Allen sets the stage for the sheer mess to come.
From there West End Girl glides – gracefully, somehow, in spite of the weight of the subject matter – through often short songs that serve as both bursts of emotional trauma and jittery dashes through what feel like proper episodes in an overall arc. Several tracks lead up to “Madeline”, which finds Allen both addressing and receiving replies from “the other woman” (who, mind you, Allen says is a composite of various women, rather than a true individual). It’s a masterstroke, effortlessly, yet painfully, blending together Allen’s righteous anger, insecurities, and cruel mercy of ‘Madeline’ trying to present as a moral, sympathetic shoulder to lean on.
If any of that brought “Becky with the good hair” to mind, well, that’s understandable. Comparisons to LEMONADE feel a tad inevitable here, but that’s an album that more touches on infidelity and outrage, and one that ultimately ends in reconciliation of and the perceived strength of true partnership. West End Girl offers no such salve. It’s an album of pure desolation and loss, walking a tightrope between suffocation and gasps for air. What makes it truly singular is Allen’s absolute refusal to dwell in self-pity or blame games. “Relapse” finds her in fear of her own addiction, “Beg for Me” dashes back from progress to the remaining, desperate need for her lover’s attention, adoration, and approval.
Sure, Mr. Harbour doesn’t emerge looking too good here at all, but Allen’s writing is never manipulative or overly dramatic. These are simply things that were and things that are. After all, in moments such as these, no one escapes unscathed. She certainly didn’t.
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