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In the latter part of October, just two days following the unexpected release of British singer-songwriter Lily Allen’s revealing fifth album, “West End Girl,” which explores the disintegration of her marriage to actor David Harbour, the couple’s Brooklyn townhouse was listed for sale at a price of eight million dollars. Nestled in Carroll Gardens, the residence boasted, as per Stefon from “Saturday Night Live,” an array of features: expansive white tiger-print carpeting, swan-shaped faucets, and a toilet designed after those found in Versailles. In a 2023 Architectural Digest home tour, the couple showcased their sauna and cold plunge pool situated in the backyard. Harbour mentioned their aspiration for their floral, carpeted bathroom, equipped with a fireplace and an armchair, to evoke “a Parisian ambiance, a space where one could envision reading Proust and enjoying Gitanes in the bathtub, or something similar.” A veritable dream!
Allen appears to vocalize about the dwelling in the initial track of “West End Girl,” commencing sweetly, with airy, fairy-tale-esque optimism, and culminating in the couple redefining their relationship’s stipulations. “And now we’re all here, we’ve moved to New York / We’ve found a nice little rental near a sweet little school,” Allen croons. “Now I’m looking at houses with four or five floors / And you’ve found us a brownstone, said ‘You want it? It’s yours.’ ” She clarifies that this was his desire: “I could never afford this / You were pushing it forward / Made me feel a bit awkward.” Harmony reigns until Allen, or her portrayal (the distinction is vague), secures a role in a play in the West End and departs for London. Upon her arrival, her spouse contacts her and—although not explicitly stated in the song—seems to propose an open marriage arrangement. The narrator begrudgingly consents. “No, I’m fine,” she utters, “I want you to be happy.”
The ensuing outcome is a breakup album for the ages, wherein the spectacular, almost theatrical collapse of the marital bond is presented in a comprehensive manner. All the raw elements are present: correspondence with her husband’s paramour, the revelation of a secret collection of adult toys, a near setback, and a nervous breakdown. In what is perhaps the album’s most infectious tune, “Pussy Palace,” Allen recounts discovering a Duane Reade shopping bag containing anal plugs and lubricant in an apartment she had inexplicably believed to be a type of dojo. (“Hundreds of Trojans, you’re so fucking broken / How’d I get caught up in your double life?”) There’s an upbeat, pop-influenced track regarding her unsuccessful endeavors to date post the commencement of the relationship’s disintegration, under the alias Dallas Major. “My name is Dallas Major and I’m coming out to play / Looking for someone to have fun with while my husband walks away,” she articulates, with fragile resolve. “I’m almost nearly forty, I’m just shy of five-foot-two / I’m a mum to teen-age children, does that sound like fun to you? / Cause I hate it here / I hate it here.”
Indeed. What further could one desire? Are we in the realm of exceptional art? Doubtfully. Was I humming “Pussy Palace” as I collected my young child from daycare? Certainly. These are unfiltered, enjoyable songs that cater to a fundamental, albeit unbecoming, yearning for scandalous details. (Descend into the depths! It’s amusing down here!) When contrasted with “The Life of a Showgirl,” Taylor Swift’s underwhelming recent album, which admirers scrutinized extensively but somewhat unfruitfully for indications of her intimate affairs, Allen has presented a rich selection of exposing particulars. “We had an arrangement / Be discreet and don’t be blatant,” she sings, regarding the stipulations of her marriage. “There had to be payment / It had to be with strangers.” Swift furnished us with a scarf, yet Allen has hung out all her private matters.
How much of this genuinely transpired? It’s challenging to ascertain definitively. Recently, in a discussion concerning the album, Allen informed British Vogue, “There are aspects that are on the record that I lived through . . . but that’s not to suggest that it’s all truth.” Allen and Harbour reportedly parted ways circa December, 2024, and Allen penned the songs during that period, as “a way for me to process what was happening in my life,” she conveyed. There’s a track entitled “Tennis,” in which the narrator peruses texts on her husband’s cellular device from an individual named Madeline. “Who the fuck is Madeline?” she questions. Subsequently, in the subsequent song, “Madeline,” she recites what appear to be missives from Madeline to her. (Madeline concludes with the exasperating “Love and light, Madeline.”) Is Madeline a real person? Allen recently disclosed to the Sunday Times that Madeline was a “fictional character,” yet acknowledged that she was a “construct” of actual individuals.
It appears that Allen isn’t overly concerned with whether listeners fully comprehend the extent to which the album mirrors true events. She has been promoting it playfully—at a launch occasion, dispensing personalized anal plugs containing a USB drive with the songs. She impersonated Madeline—from the children’s stories—for Halloween. In concise videos accompanying the songs, she portrays, in varying capacities, a melancholic clown, a vagrant, an off-duty performer, a nun donning heels, and a huntswoman in a top hat wielding a shotgun. The songs, at minimum, possess an air of authenticity. They are comical and poignant, encapsulating the disorder inherent in open partnerships and ethical non-monogamy. “I tried to be your modern wife / But the child in me protests,” Allen belts, in an agitated, spiraling melody titled “Relapse.” All of Allen’s most unappealing sentiments are also present: humiliation, minor malevolence, desperation. In the understatedly personal track “Just Enough,” she vocalizes, “Look at my reflection / I feel so drawn, so old / I booked myself a face-lift / Wondering how long it might hold.” There’s a phrase, soothing as a lullaby, wherein she ponders, “Why are we here talking about vasectomies?”
The album also delves into the theme of privacy—who is entitled to it, and who is not. Allen has remained in the public eye in the U.K. for two decades and possesses considerable commentary on tabloid culture within Britain. (She’s significantly more recognized across the Atlantic; Brooklyn presented a degree of obscurity.) In the past, she has indicated that media attention has contributed to an eating ailment. Her preceding album, “No Shame,” from 2018, pertained to the dissolution of her initial marriage, and she promoted it as a reversion to her genuine self. However, “West End Girl” propels that endeavor of self-exposure further. By creating a record that shatters her privacy, she gains the ability to reveal herself on her own terms. Towards the conclusion, in a song entitled “Let You W/In,” she contemplates deceiving her offspring to safeguard them, as well as her former spouse, but ultimately decides against it. “All I can do is sing / So why should I let you win?” she sings. And, subsequently, “I can walk out with my dignity / If I lay my truth on the table.”
Allen and Harbour’s gorgeous brownstone remains available for purchase. Whoever acquires it will require a substantial quantity of sage to purify the atmosphere. In a joke that resonates less humorously now, Harbour answers the entry in that Architectural Digest video tour as if encountering a past lover who had arrived unexpectedly. “What the hell are you doing here?” he remarks, feigning astonishment. “I mean, last time I was single and I was living on the Lower East Side. I have a family now. Kids. I mean, this is so embarrassing.” Then he raises his eyebrows, with simulated seductiveness. “You look good, though,” he quips. “Come on in.” ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
