There is one question in my mind as I listen to Lily Allen’s West End Girl for the first time: how many people – lawyers, friends, that tremulous voice of self-preservation at four in the morning – told her to reconsider releasing this divorce album? It’s not just confessional pop, it’s obliterative; a post-mortem performed without anaesthesia, a death-by-a-million-cuts account of a thoroughly modern marriage breakdown. According to the album’s press release, it’s part fact, part fiction, and it’s impossible to know where one ends and the other begins. Naturally, listeners will focus entirely on the context – her already public, acrimonious divorce from actor David Harbour – and, given the album’s intense specificity, barely squint for the seams between truth and invention. Whatever happens next is inevitable: the blood feels real, and that’s the point.
Songs about cheating (“I can’t shake the image of her naked/ On top of you and I’m dissociated”), open relationships (“I don’t wanna f*** with anyone else/ Now that’s all you wanna do”) and sex addiction (“hundreds of Trojans, you’re so f***ing broken”) are best experienced raw, on their own terms. Inevitable comparisons to classic heartbreak pop albums written by thirtysomethings will seem wrong. Beyoncé’s Lemonade, after all, is mediated by marital reconciliation; Kacey Musgraves’s Star-Crossed made measured by the lack of betrayal; Adele’s 30 tempered by a few years of reflection. But the bewildered and wounded Allen wrote West End Girl in 10 days. It shows, in the best way.
This musical of deceit and suffering puts her in the starring role, seizing control of her narrative and holding little back. Those distinctive, creamy vocals sound sad and deflated, as if she’s processing in real time. Seven years since her last album, this intense story-driven format lets her sound sharper, smarter, and more clear-eyed than before.
The show opens with the jaunty title track – an unnervingly sunny bit of scene-setting. Allen’s narrator got her happy ever after, moved to New York for him, hesitated, then conceded when he talked her into a house that was too expensive. But all is not well. In real life, Allen starred in 2:22: A Ghost Story, playing a woman who suspects her new home, bought with her husband, is haunted. The irony is acute: art imitating life, or perhaps life catching up with art. Allen misses nothing, which is part of the problem for her narrator’s marriage.
Across the early, easy-breezy songs, a narrative begins to take shape: the husband proposes an open relationship, and she agrees… reluctantly. “I tried to be your modern wife/ But the child in me protests,” could be the finest lyric in pop this year, lamented through Auto-Tune over a mournful dubstep beat. The humour grows darker as he takes liberties with the rules of their arrangement. On “Tennis” Allen repeatedly demands, “Who the f***’s Madeline?” over Stepford Wives–style “dinner’s ready” production. Madeline – the “Becky with the good hair” of West End Girl – doesn’t escape unscathed. The next track, named after the pseudonym under which she’s saved in the husband’s phone, is a flamenco-meets-spaghetti-western showdown: a direct address, an interrogation over text, gunshots echoing behind each plea for truth. A Valley Girl voice cuts in, assuring Allen it’s “only sex” and signing off with a cloying “love and light”.
Sitting squarely at the heart of the album – track seven of 14 – “Pussy Palace” serves as its emotional core, the point of no return. Allen describes throwing her husband out of their marital home in New York, sending him to his separate West Village apartment. When she goes there to drop something off, she’d assumed it was a dojo (one of many eyebrow-raising moments, considering Harbour is trained in jiu-jitsu). Instead, she discovers what she says is his base for frequent sex. “So am I looking at a sex addict (sex addict, sex addict, sex addict)?” she asks, her voice hollow.
The listener has barely recovered when, over the old-Hollywood strings and delicate finger-plucking of the following ballad, “Just Enough”, Allen wonders whether her husband has fathered a child with someone else. Again and again, she pecks at herself in songs where she feels too old, too exhausted to be desirable. She even books a facelift in her late thirties to win his love (“I just want to meet your needs/ And for some reason I revert to people pleasing,” she admits breathily on “Nonmonogamummy”).
Allen has said she drew from personal experience to write songs that feel universal, though that relatability only really lands in the final two tracks – and they’re two of her best. On the quietly triumphant“Let You W-in,” she lays out the album’s aim: “I can walk out with my dignity if I lay my truth out on the table.” What’s eerily universal is how easy it is, in love, to drown in someone else’s shame and mistake it for your own. On the bittersweet closing ballad “Fruityloop”, she serves herself a slice of responsibility: “I’m just a little girl/ Looking for her daddy.”
After two albums that defined mid-2000s British pop, Allen lost her grip on the pop star version of herself that once felt effortless. Sheezus and No Shame had the same attitude but lacked focus. The pain of this real-life breakup has given her something solid to attack with all her might, and West End Girl feels like the clarity she’s been writing toward for years. In 2025, Allen sounds newly alive in the contradictions we loved her for: acid-tongued and soft-hearted, ironic and sincere, broken again but alright, still.
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