Lily Allen

Alright, Still

On the strength of opener ‘Alfie', I was ready to launch into a tirade against musical comedy (what a fucking oxymoron). A weak bossa-nova Nokia ring-tone beat overlaid with lyrics about how your brother smokes dope in his bedroom. This surge of virulent bile continued for a number of hours, until I went looking for the title of the album I'd been sent and discovered that Lily Allen is the daughter of Keith Allen. British readers will be aware of Allen as an occasional actor and Damian Hirst's friend. He was in Shallow Grave as the man with the suitcase full of money who dies. The man is, for all intents and purposes, a ridiculous twat.

This, of course, does not affect the music on display here. I don't think that Lily Allen is trying to be a musical comedienne. She's actually trying really hard to be a cut-price Lady Sovereign (who in turn is busy becoming a cut-price Mike Skinner, instead of fulfilling her potential as the British Missy Elliot). The songs are seriously undernourished by inspiration, and all the lyrics deal with the ‘hilarious' tribulations of a young lady's urban existence. Imagine trying to chat up a man who wants to pull your mate! Imagine pretending you had the clap to get away! Imagine having to cycle to work! In London! Imagine your grandmother went to the shops! Aren't old people funny! Isn't life just a series of comedy gems, just waiting for some astute observational comedy?!

The answer to this question (should it be a question, or an excited statement? I'm in two minds) is ‘Yes', but Lily Allen is far from the witty flaneur she thinks she is. The one highlight is the beautifully eloquent couplet she drops into ‘Not Big': "Oh my God, you must be joking me/ If you think that you'll be poking me." And that only qualifies because I'm a sucker for smutty euphemisms. Imagine how shit an album has to be if that's the highlight!

Keith Patterson

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