It's Not Me, It's You!

B/f you rush out this weekend to Easy Street to buy the new Lily Allen, It's Not Me, It's You, b/c you were thinkin’ it’s ab time you check out something hep again and you learned from two big recent write-ups in The New York Times and the New Yorker that the acid tongued squirt is some dance-pop songsmith (and TV personality) from swinging London big on the sardonic (meaning she’s a sarcastic alcoholic— maybe like Ricky Gervais you hope, only sexier?!).

But what a soggy, sodden, sorry mess of a record, huh?! First, there’s no dance in this pop. (If this is the only dance-pop record you buy this year trade it in for the Robyn record now, I’m tellin’ ya!) The Caribbean lilt to her last record is gone. In its place is some goofy Brit dancehall melodrama reminiscent of Ian Dury or the Specials, a nice touch, but attached to rhythm tracks ab as exciting as the escalator at Target.

She’s good at a dis, or taking the piss, or whatever the kids call this sort of bitter satire these days. A “Fuck You” to the Bushies and to an Ex, who could be me when I’m feeling extra pitiful ab my life in relationship hell the last five years, hit the bull’s-eye. The abstinence only crowd ought use her stuff as a cautionary tale. Her first single, “The Fear,” mines the soul-depleting existential dilemma of the shopaholic celebrity. If you’re over 30 rolling your eyes and yawning is an involuntary reflex watching her sing it.

That Lilly does not give a fuck gives her wit a caustic edge but it sure doesn’t help the music. Fans won’t notice or blame it on her producer, The Bird and The Bee’s Greg Kurstin. Me, I’m ready to reconsider the Lily Allen vs. Katy Perry question.

Addendum: Revisiting this one after seeing X-gau make it his pick hit in his April Consumer Guide. I was extra hard on it b/c I expected a lot. Lily has her own thing. But lyrically and, especially, musically the record is lackluster. She's bored.