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Toward the close of October, a mere two days subsequent to the unexpected unveiling of British artist Lily Allen’s intimate fifth long-player, “West End Girl,” which delves into the disintegration of her marital bond with 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 the “Saturday Night Live” character Stefon might remark, an abundance of features: comprehensive white tiger-print carpeting, swan-shaped faucets, and a toilet patterned after those found in Versailles. During a tour of the property featured in Architectural Digest in 2023, the pair showcased the sauna and cold plunge pool situated in the backyard. Harbour conveyed their aspiration for the floral, carpeted bathroom, complete with a fireplace and armchair, to evoke “a Parisian sensibility, a setting where one could imagine oneself engrossed in Proust while indulging in Gitanes cigarettes in the tub, or something of that nature.” A truly enchanting vision!
Allen seemingly alludes to the abode in the initial track of “West End Girl,” commencing on a sweet note, with airy, whimsical optimism, and culminating in the couple’s renegotiation of their relationship’s parameters. “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 emphasizes that this was his desire: “I could never afford this / You were pushing it forward / Made me feel a bit awkward.” Harmony prevails until Allen, or the persona she embodies (the distinction is ambiguous), secures a role in a West End production and departs for London. While there, her spouse calls and—although not explicitly articulated in the composition—apparently proposes an open marital arrangement. The narrator acquiesces reluctantly. “No, I’m fine,” she states, “I want you to be happy.”
What ensues is a breakup record of considerable depth, wherein the spectacular, almost theatrical unraveling of the marriage is presented in a comprehensive manner. Every raw element is present: communications with her husband’s paramour, the unearthing of a stash of adult novelty items, a near lapse, and an episode of intense anxiety. In what is arguably the album’s most infectious melody, “Pussy Palace,” Allen recounts discovering a Duane Reade bag containing anal plugs and lubricant in an apartment she believed, somewhat inexplicably, was a type of training space. (“Hundreds of Trojans, you’re so fucking broken / How’d I get caught up in your double life?”) A cheerful, albeit artificial, tune narrates her unsuccessful attempts to date post-separation, under the assumed name 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 vocalizes, with strained 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 request? Are we witnessing a work of significant artistic merit? Doubtful. Was I unconsciously humming “Pussy Palace” while collecting my young child from daycare? Without a doubt. These are candid, gratifying songs that cater to a basic, albeit unflattering, yearning for scandalous details. (Descend into the depths! It’s amusing down below!) Compared with “The Life of a Showgirl,” Taylor Swift’s underwhelming recent offering, which followers painstakingly analyzed with limited success for hints of her personal experiences, Allen has provided an absolute wealth of revealing particulars. “We had an arrangement / Be discreet and don’t be blatant,” she sings, concerning the stipulations of her marriage. “There had to be payment / It had to be with strangers.” Swift presented us with a scarf, whereas Allen has displayed all her private matters.
The degree to which these events transpired in reality remains uncertain. In a recent discussion about the album, Allen informed British Vogue, “There are aspects documented that I lived through . . . however, this is not to say that the entirety is factual.” Allen and Harbour reportedly separated around December, 2024, and Allen composed the tracks during this period, she stated, as “a means for me to manage the unfolding events in my life.” A track named “Tennis” features the narrator reading messages on her husband’s mobile device from an individual named Madeline. “Who the fuck is Madeline?” she belts out. Subsequently, in the succeeding song, “Madeline,” she recites what appear to be missives sent from Madeline to her. (Madeline concludes with the vexing “Love and light, Madeline.”) Does Madeline exist in reality? Allen recently admitted to the Sunday Times that Madeline was a “fictional persona,” yet acknowledged that she was a “composite” of actual individuals.
Allen does not appear to be overly concerned with whether listeners discern the exact degree to which the album is anchored in genuine experiences. She has promoted it in a lighthearted manner—at one promotional gathering, dispensing custom-made anal plugs containing a USB drive with the tracks. For Halloween, she adopted the guise of Madeline—from the children’s stories. In short clips that accompany the tracks, she poses, by turns, as a mournful clown, a pauper, an off-duty showgirl, a nun wearing stilettos, and a marksman donning a top hat while wielding a shotgun. The tracks, at the very least, resonate with authenticity. They are witty and melancholic, and capture the disarray of open partnerships and ethical non-monogamy. “I tried to be your modern wife / But the child in me protests,” Allen belts out, in a distressed, cascading composition called “Relapse.” All of Allen’s most unpleasant sentiments are present, as well: embarrassment, minor vengefulness, desperation. In the subtly intimate track “Just Enough,” she sings, “Look at my reflection / I feel so drawn, so old / I booked myself a face-lift / Wondering how long it might hold.” There is a lyric, as delicate as a lullaby, in which she questions, “Why are we here talking about vasectomies?”
The album also explores privacy—who is entitled to it, and who is not. Allen has been a fixture in the British public sphere for two decades, and possesses considerable insight into tabloid culture in the U.K. (She is considerably more renowned across the Atlantic; Brooklyn offered a degree of anonymity.) In the past, she has suggested that media scrutiny contributed to the development of an eating disorder. Her previous release, “No Shame,” from 2018, centered around the dissolution of her initial marriage, and she promoted it as a reclamation of her genuine self. However, “West End Girl” expands upon this project of self-revelation further. By creating a record that shatters her personal space, she is able to present herself on her own terms. Toward the end, in a composition entitled “Let You W/In,” she contemplates deceiving her children to shield them, as well as her former partner, but opts against it. “All I can do is sing / So why should I let you win?” she sings. And, later, “I can walk out with my dignity / If I lay my truth on the table.”
The exquisite townhouse of Allen and Harbour remains available for purchase. The prospective buyer will require an abundance of sage to purify the atmosphere. In a jest that carries less amusement presently, Harbour answers the entrance in that Architectural Digest video excursion as though encountering a past lover who has arrived uninvited. “What the hell are you doing here?” he quips, feigning surprise. “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.” Subsequently, he arches his eyebrows, mockingly seductively. “You look good, though,” he remarks. “Come on in.” ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com