To listen to Lily Allen’s new album West End Girl is to be drawn into the painful disintegration of a marriage. It feels like we are there, with Allen: on the call learning about her husband’s alleged infidelity, reading the texts on his phone, finding the physical evidence.
The critics love it. Fans are writing obsessive, breathless newsletters about it. One reviewer said that it may well have changed the chemistry in their brain.
I was alone in my office when I first pressed play, expecting a couple of catchy but ultimately forgettable pop songs. After listening to the album from start to finish – twice – I ran downstairs and subjected my own husband to a track-by-track breakdown. I recounted every twist in the tale like I was reading out a celebrity gossip page.
