It’s been two-and-a-half years since the release of Allen’s 2.5 million-selling debut album Alright, Still. The girl exploded onto a grateful pop scene like a female Mike Skinner with catchier tunes, spawned a slew of largely dreadful snotty girl imitators… and then appeared to spend two years trying to be Jade Goody. Those of us who suspected she was one of the great pop singers and lyricists of her age began to wonder if she was too busy being yet another embarrassing celebrity to do the hard work of making music again.
Lily Allen's latest release, "It's Not Me, It's You" is out now online and in store.
Yet Allen kept insisting that she was just taking her time to get the difficult second album right, and, for once, the delaying tactic has paid off. It’s Not Me, It’s You is a wonderful record, and, better than that, a pop album brave enough to have a go at defining the times. If Allen wanted to dodge the inevitable backlash about her lack of working-class authenticity and play it safe, the worst possible thing she could do was write songs about George W Bush (Fuck You), drugs (Everybody’s at It), celebrity (The Fear), God (Him) and her father (He Wasn’t There). She went right ahead and did it anyway. This is heroic pop star behaviour.
The album’s first single, The Fear, is the state-of-the-nation hit that Britain deserves. As the country cringes in the face of recession, Allen’s simple connections between celebrity, consumerism and a culture that feels aimless and scared capture the moment, as classic pop is meant to do. It’s followed by the best example of her other side, the dirty, personal-political joke. Not Fair sees producer Greg Kurstin invent electro-bluegrass, and deals with the dilemma of meeting the perfect caring, sharing boyfriend, who, unfortunately, is rubbish in bed. “I look into your eyes I want to get to know yer/ And then you make this noise and it’s apparent it’s all over,” Lily deadpans as the song linedances jauntily. It’s Not Me, It’s You is buoyed by Kurstin’s bravura blend of unlikely musical styles – music hall, country, tango, klezmer, Eurovision – and Allen’s dismayed and amused take on the perennial modern life is rubbish theme. It’s all agreeably reminiscent of peak period Madness, while the dreamy deftness of the more electronic moments echoes Abba and the Pet Shop Boys.
Elsewhere, Fuck You is an anti-Nazi rant in the style of the Carpenters; Him is a faux-naive pondering of God’s character which features the line that his favourite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival; He Wasn’t There forgives her dad, Keith Allen, for crimes past over synthetic swing; and the stunning 22 is the kinder twin of Amy Winehouse’s Fuck Me Pumps, in its take on a woman who parties away her twenties and then has nothing better to aim for than getting a man.
Like Winehouse, Allen embodies a post-feminist feminism that young working-class girls might understand on an instinctive rather than intellectual level. Nothing on the album is really aimed towards men, unless they’re the butt of the joke or the object of desire. And in the latter category, Who’d Have Known and Chinese are lovely evocations of the simple pleasures of the beginnings of love affairs. (Parents be warned, though: much of this record will prove too rude for Lily’s many pre-teen fans.)
The best thing about It’s Not Me, It’s You, though, is Allen’s voice. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if she learnt cockney at the feet of Dick Van bloomin’ Dyke, because it’s the balance between the earthiness of her accent and the creaminess of her tone that is the killer element in her pop arsenal; the natural sad smile in her voice lends sincerity to sentiments both cruel and kind. And when our obsession with the aspirational looks increasingly like a global joke, a voice that sounds like we really talk and feel, and makes that sound beautiful, is just the ticket. Lily Allen is the perfect pop star for these crumbling times, and this album is the proof.
