Amid the latest wave of British poppettes, Lily Allen is the one
whose sharp tongue avoided being totally derailed by substance abuse
problems à la Amy Winehouse. And while Allen’s troubles did
include a number of drunken public spectacles and a highly publicized
miscarriage, she’s built on the success of her 2007 debut Alright,
Still. But while that project was a delicious amalgamation of ska,
reggae, and other esoteric samples that brought to mind the Streets
breaking bread with the Specials at a Manchester house party, Allen’s
sophomore effort is more straightforward.
Rather than work with a handful of collaborators, the 23-year-old
pop ingenue retained the bird and the bee’s Greg Kurstin to produce.
Not surprisingly, Allen’s public and private lives are ripe for
analysis, whether she’s claiming to be “a weapon of mass consumption”
amid the thumping synths of “The Fear” or decrying to an inept lover
that When we go up to bed you’re just no good as a postmodern
country-music cadence informs “Not Fair.” Elsewhere, these songs allow
her to vent about the shortcomings of her father (music-hall ditty “He
Wasn’t There”), unfair expectations for twentysomething women (the
poppy anthem “22”), and conservatives (the puerile “Fuck You”).
There’s plenty to like about Allen letting it all fly free,
particularly when she stashes the snark and allows some vulnerabilities
to shine through, such as she does on the airy synth-pop of “Chinese.”
But Kurstin’s straightforward production nuances have Lily Allen going
from great to merely good. (Capitol)
