Lily Allen
Alright, still
(Capitol)
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Untitled Document
The Internet giveth, and the Internet taketh away.
Under these harsh new conditions, the buildup-to-backlash cycle is over in
the blink of a blognerd’s eye. Consider the case of Lily Allen, the
21-year-old daughter of British actor/comedian Keith Allen. The younger
Allen attained It Girl status by posting MP3s, cute pix, and
orthographically challenged messages to her MySpace page;
then, baptized by buckets of cyberslobber, she parlayed her
newfound fabulosity into a No. 1 single on the British charts. Predictably enough, by the
time Parlophone/EMI released her debut full-length, Alright, Still, in the United
Kingdom last summer, her haters were suddenly legion. They wrote her off as
a spoiled brat, a poseur with a “mockney” accent, a shameless
purveyor of “bitchpop.” The famously cruel British tabloids got
in on the action, too, bribing an ex-boyfriend to dish dirt on her
drug use and sexual habits. All this happened before the CD even made it
across the pond. So it goes: The perfect summertime record hits the States
in the dead of winter, well after the fickle commentariat has decided
it’s all played out. (Is this our punishment for rejecting Robbie
Williams?)
The good news is, once you actually hear it, in all
of its easy, breezy, endorphin-generating splendor, you
won’t waste a nanosecond worrying about Allen’s backstory. Nor
will you care that her chosen medium is ska-pop, a genre that should, by
all laws of logic and precedent, strike fear in the hearts of
right-thinking music fans everywhere. So what if a coven of Interweb dweebs
complain that she’s mean (and make no mistake, she is, shockingly so
at times); unless they’re prepared to condemn Eminem and pretty much
every other mainstream hip-hop artist for the same crime, they’re
nothing but sexist hypocrites. At its candyfloss core, Alright, Still is just a
fantastic album studded with should-be singles. An improbable blend of
vintage ska, springy calypso, spacious dub, and ’60s cocktail kitsch,
it aspires to the condition of pure pop, light as air and almost as
necessary. And even though the credits list approximately 4 gazillion
musicians, co-writers, producers, and studio fixers, very little
seems labored over.
In fact, maybe one reason so many people hate Allen
is that she makes it all seem so maddeningly easy. She has an airy,
affectless lilt and a loose, insouciant sense of timing; this larky-Lolita
persona contrasts, often disturbingly, with her acidic lyrics. If Thomas
Hobbes were reborn as a foul-mouthed schoolgirl, he’d probably sound
a lot like Lily Allen. Crybaby ex-lovers, skeezy blokes who want her
number, unfeeling loan officers, annoying slags who pick fights with her
outside the club — all fall victim to Allen’s ruthless tongue.
The irresistible calypso romp “LDN” neatly conveys her
gamine naturalism, this constant tension between the lovely and the lurid.
Coasting along on her bike on a perfect sunny day,
she notices, among other charming urban tableaux, “a fella looking
dapper” who turns out, on closer inspection, to be “a pimp with
his crack whore.” In the unspeakably cruel but undeniably funny
“Nan You’re a Window Shopper,” a remake of 50
Cent’s “Window Shopper,” Allen describes her
coupon-clipping, cat-hair-covered grandma as “rollin’
rollin’ rollin’” — with her grocery cart and her
leaky colostomy bag. “Knock ’Em Out” uses a Professor
Longhair sample to satirize star-crossed hookups, and the
vaudeville-inspired “Alfie” is a lunatic, tuba-driven
admonition to her weed-addled younger brother. Aside from the irritating
meta-anthem “Take What You Take,” a half-hearted stab at
stadium-ready Britpop, Alright, Still is a savage delight through and through. Like
Hobbes’ description of life in a state of nature, it’s nasty,
brutish, and short — much, much too short.
Contact René
Spencer Saller at [email protected].
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