4/5
The British pop star long known for her tabloid presence becomes the tabloid itself on her latest release.
Lily Allen rose to fame in the mid to late 2000s. She began her music career on MySpace, releasing her debut album in 2006. Allen’s influence on modern pop is undeniable — her sharp, in-your-face wit and confessional lyricism have rippled through the industry ever since. Artists like Olivia Rodrigo, Audrey Hobert and Billie Eilish are all direct students of Allen’s fearless style.
Her latest album, West End Girl, continues her tradition of charismatic, self-aware songwriting — this time, underpinned by the chaotic dissolution of her marriage to David Harbour.
West End Girl is raw, biting and unflinchingly self-aware. Allen is numb to her pain, instead dissecting it with dark humor, devastating charm and grace.
The project’s opener “West End Girl” begins light and airy, somewhat upbeat as she recounts the early days of her marriage: moving to New York City, booking a role in a play back home in London and the guilt that followed her decision. As the song unfolds, it takes a darker turn — ending with a candid phone conversation told from her perspective, in which her partner requests to open their marriage.
There’s no gloss or self-pity as Allen recounts each betrayal with unnerving calm in her voice, even as her words wound. It’s the kind of composure that only comes from complete emotional exhaustion.
From here, the album spirals into a line-by-line account of the trust that was broken: the affairs, addictions and collapse of their relationship. West End Girl is ultra confessional and candid. Allen breaks down every aspect in detail — no matter how explicit or taboo — using plain, direct language set to simple, restrained production.
Written in just 10 days, the speed of the album’s creation bleeds through in every song. It sounds less like a polished pop record and more like a diary set to music.
Allen pours her heart and mind into this project, taking listeners on an emotional journey. The second track, “Ruminating,” explores the fragile terms of her and her partner’s open relationship arrangement. Things quickly unravel in the next three songs — “Sleepwalking,” “Tennis” and “Madeleine” — as Allen grows increasingly suspicious. She first discovers proof of her partner’s betrayal by looking through his phone, then confronts him through email and later his mistress over text. All laid bare and traversing many genres, Allen guides you through her mind in these tense moments.
Allen’s explanation of these events is raw and unfiltered, seamlessly revealing masses of information through candid lyrics and metaphors.
On “Relapse,” she pulls back the curtain on her own psyche, describing the mental spiral that follows such a guttural discovery — craving something stronger to take away the pain and make sense of her heartbreak.
By the time we reach “P**sy Palace,” a standout track on the album, Allen leaves nothing up to interpretation. She pulls no punches in her lyrics on this song: “I didn’t know it was your p**sy palace […] / I always thought it was a dojo […] / So am I looking at a sex addict, sex addict […] / Oh, talk about a low blow.” Later in the track, she also references a Duane Reade bag of unmentionables. Evidently, Allen isn’t interested in sugarcoating things or making the details of her discoveries easier to grapple with. Her intention is for the listener to be as uneasy hearing the lyrics as she was uncovering the truth.
Allen refines her ability to be comedic yet cutting on track eight, “4chan Stan,” where she continues to detail the betrayal and lies her partner has kept from her. On “Nonmonogamummy,” Allen reaches a point of emotional overload. She conflicts with her obligation of marriage and the freedom that this open arrangement could provide her while, detailing the power imbalance and sacrifices she faces amid her partner’s betrayal.
From here, their relationship is all but severed. On “Dallas Major,” Allen guides us through the aftermath — an attempt at self-discovery grounded in the circumstances she finds herself in, singing, “my name is Dallas Major, / I’m just shy of five foot two. / I’m a mum to teenage children, / does that sound like fun to you?”
The tracks that follow trace a more inward dialogue as she reconciles with the grief of losing her relationship. The story closes on the final track “Fruityloop” which rounds off the album on a note of weary resolution. Allen accepts the collapse and moves forward while still struggling to understand her partner’s choices, wishing things could’ve been different but finding peace in closure.
West End Girl might be the most mature breakup album of the decade, recounting every painful detail with the raw tension that has defined Allen’s past four years. The record consistently builds and releases emotional pressure, each song peeling back another layer of resentment, grief and grim humor.
What’s striking about the album is that Allen never once begs for the listener’s sympathy; every lyric is delivered with the same wry detachment that’s defined her career as if she’s already laughing through the tears.
West End Girl is a triumph from an artist who still clearly has a lot to offer the industry. While the project is deeply tied to a specific moment in Allen’s life — destined to fade from the public tabloids as quickly as it entered — it remains a powerful snapshot of heartbreak and resilience. Still, much of the project relies on its immediacy. Some songs don’t lend themselves to re-listening without the context of Allen’s story, making the album feel more like a time capsule than a timeless pop record. It’s a triumph in honesty but lacks longevity.
Overall, the album paints an unflinching portrait of betrayal and the sour aftertaste of lost trust. It’s a brutally honest, emotionally charged chronicle that proves Lily Allen’s greatest power has always been her ability to turn her deepest wounds into art.