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Take care of your clam

The title of Lily Allen’s new album, It’s Not Me, It’s You is a snarky testament to the gallivanting girl in her twenties. Lily and I are cut from the same cloth (I’m 24 and single), so I feel her on the bed-hopping blame game, but I feel even more for the poor sap who inspired “Not Fair”. The galloping, country-influenced romp through Lily’s worn sheets introduces us to a gentleman who’s “not like all them other boys”—apparently because he’s considerate everywhere but in the bedroom. Lily paints a wince-inducing scene with the lines, “I look into your eyes I want to get to know you/And then you make this noise and it’s apparent it’s all over.”

At least the man in question can take comfort in the fact that Lily’s been on her back so many times no one will ever know which lad she’s lampooning.

But if this guy is so great in every other area, why doesn’t Lily just give him a tutorial in tumbling? I’ll tell you why— because even though all this shoddy ass grabbing provides her with some decent songwriting fodder, Lily Allen’s greatest muse will always be herself. I suppose it takes one to know one, so let me just say that the last thing a selfish, pleasure-seeking lady wants is to waste time training a nice guy when she could be getting non-committal sex elsewhere. For reasons why, just turn to the lyrics of Lily’s big hit, “The Fear”. Lily calls herself “a weapon of massive consumption” and her insatiable appetite for “loads of clothes and fuckloads of diamonds” extends to her sexual habits as well. It’s like shoes. Why settle for the Stella McCartney platforms when you can have the Derek Lam pumps too? A girl needn’t choose between the brooding bassist and the erudite academic—she can wear ‘em both out.

Lily gets all talk show confessional during the chorus of “The Fear”. She seems to be singing through the sighs when she admits, “I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore and I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore.” Welcome to nihilism, my dear. Another song, “Chinese” extols the simple pleasure of eating take-out with your boyfriend, and “22″ reveals Lily’s anxiety about ending up as a thirty-something philanderer, so maybe the girl is looking to settle
down after all. I recently fell in love with a $1,000 leather jacket and my eyes have yet to wander to another coat, so maybe there’s hope for me too. Insert winky emoticon.

Every woman eventually butts her pretty head against the paradox Lily’s contending with: how to be sexually liberated yet also find a steady partner. Curbing the insatiable appetite is tough, especially when you’re a hot young thing with a credit card and a record deal, but maybe Lily just needs a few more spins on the sexytime carousel before she’s dizzy enough to fall in love. The world is your oyster, Lily Allen—just take care of your clam and hope for the best.

-Kate Reid

Newsflash: Lily Allen swears on her new album

Lily Allen made waves across the pond with her debut, Alright, Still for several reasons: catchy pop presented with a faux-Cockney accent; bangs; lineage (daughter of Brit comedian Keith Allen); and a sassy, liberated-chick (read: emasculating to aging rock critics) attitude exemplified by lots of swear words. An excited populace, mostly in their 20s and having watched one episode of The Sarah Silverman Show too many, cried, “More, please!”

Well, Allen’s giving it to them on her new album. But like the lacklustre lover in “Not Fair”, it’s missing one crucial ingredient that redeemed the debut. In this case (as opposed to the problem in “Not Fair”, where the guy is Speedy Gonzales), it’s novelty.

Without that, It’s Not Me, It’s You just sounds like a calculated riff on her first record. Expletives? Check. “Candid” confessions? Check. Pop hooks: sure (cf: the modified reggae chorus in “Never Gonna Happen”). But any sense of fun is lost in the wheels turning,  even as the songs veer from dancehall piano in “22″ to the rapidfire beats of “Back to the Start” to the tinkly Carpenters piano of “F*** You” (yes, it’s come to that).

Commercially, It’s Not Me, It’s You, is a canny move—it might catch the attention of those in its intended-for demographic who missed Allen her first time out. Artistically, well, I’d hate to think she’ll still be crying the poor little rich girl blues at 30. Then again, that could just be a threatened music critic talking.

-Shawn Conner

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