It’s disquieting, as a bloke, to hear two thousand female voices singing about the sexual frustration caused by premature ejaculation. A noisy chorale, heartfelt, behind Lily Allen’s 2009 hit “Not Fair”, cascades from two tiers of balconies. “And then you make this noise, and it's apparent it's all over.” Lily Allen isn’t even on yet. Just this celebratory femme-centric congregation around the joys of dating a one-minute man.
It’s the first half of the show – and make no mistake, this is a show, touring theatres, not a gig – and it’s a simple set-up. Three female cello players, clad in black, perform in front of a screen on which run the lyrics to Allen’s best-loved older songs, karaoke-style.
Not all songs are suited to such treatment (the jagged structure of “Alfie”, for instance), and the onscreen words often slip out of synch with the cellos, but the sing-along is embraced, en masse, right from opening number “The Fear” (one of this century’s finest UK chart-toppers). The result is a communal feeling, somewhere between feminism and “girl power”.
I’d thought this part of the evening might be naff and cheesy but it’s not. In places it’s rather beautiful, everyone loudly conjoined around Allen’s chewy, pin-sharp lyricism. Things conclude with “Fuck You”, her pithy sneer at reactionary ignorance. In an age where we have chin-stroking debates about whether to say a bunch of nasty racists are a bunch of nasty racists, it’s a wonderful release to join so many voices singing, “Fuck you… 'cause we hate what you do.. so, please don't stay in touch.”
After a 20-minute interval, it’s time for the main course. Before things begin, there’s uproarious applause as YouTube/Insta Nottingham-local celebrity “Charity Shop Sue” takes her seat at the front. She will later be serenaded by Allen and do a flamenco-ish dance routine in return (see picture below).
The cheers that greet Charity Shop Sue are as nothing compared to when Lily Allen appears in front of the house curtain. She’s dressed in a 2026 swipe at Jackie Kennedy’s Dealey Plaza outfit. This is appropriate, given her West End Girl album, which she’s about to perform in full, is a livid character assassination of her ex-husband, the actor David Harbour.
You need to have been living on Mars not to know the backstory but, in brief, their open relationship, possibly coerced, had parameters which West End Girl represents as having been cold-heartedly trampled all over by Harbour in pursuit of sex. Tonight hots up, emotionally, after Allen sings the title track, then takes a call on a red telephone where we hear her saying that whatever’s being suggested “doesn’t make me feel great”.
This is theatre and she acts it well, her voice gradually breaking, to roars of outrage from the audience. These blossom in the next song, “Ruminating”. She sings that she’s asked, “If it has to happen, baby, do you want to know?”, to which she responds, along with the crowd, with increasing rage, “What a fucking line, what a fucking line…”
The show lasts a little over an hour and is impeccably, precisely choreographed, stunningly designed, and thoroughly involving. The stage set is based around beds, lamps, chandeliers, and a pink Smeg fridge. There are two major set and costume changes. Allen initially and gradually strips to a negligee before donning a transparent, fur-lined gown for “Ruminating” with it’s gnawing “Who’s Madeline?” refrain.
This leads into the song “Madeline” itself, wherein Allen holds the hand of a silver-glittered arm which reaches from under the bed, and is tempted by the fridge, which offers booze, a vape (cheers when she tries this), and even a pair of stilettoed legs. It ends with her sobbing on the bed – “It had to be strangers… but you’re not a stranger, Madeline” – which is quietly moving.
The West End Girl album is a biting concept piece, but is undermined by currently-in-vogue, watery, non-invasive production. Live, however, it comes into its own. It works at every level.
There’s no band. Allen enacts the whole herself. The album’s flatter songs come to life, while its best sound brilliant. In the latter category would be “Pussy Palace”, expressing disgust at sex addiction, Allen dressed in tight, maroon, leather-effect shorts, and a black lace top, tipping sex toys from a plastic bag onto the bed. And the ragga-ish “Nonmonogamummy”, featuring a recorded projection of MC Specialist Moss doing his part.
The online dating snark of breakbeat roller “Dallas Major” is a highlight. She performs it in her final outfit, an off-the-shoulder, floor-length, black leather dress with conical corsetry, split at the back to the upper thigh. She dusts the furniture like a supermodel housewife, a boa round her neck. The way she looks these days may be her most carefully calculated vengeance.
By now, the audience is up and dancing. They remain up, even for the last songs which are contemplative, sadness-laced cuts (“I’m so fucking miserable”), such as “Beg For Me” and "Let You W/In”. They address the psychological underpinnings of her situation, concluding with “Fruityloop”, which she milks with her only audience engagement, a couple of conspiratorial smirks.
She might as well have bellowed, “HOW YA DOIN’, NOTTINGHAM?!?”, for the barrage of whoops she receives, before departing with a twinkly wave, then returning to receive a bouquet of flowers. She bows and departs, a Judy Garland diva for the TikTok era.
West End Girl is unlike what 99% of pop/rock stars would come up with. It’s an original, like its maker. The nearest I can think of is when Kanye West performed at Glastonbury 2015 in a light-sided box to backing tracks, but whereas that was self-indulgent, alienating and, eventually, tedious, this is self-indulgent, engaging and, eventually, rather amazing.
Below: Listen to and watch the visualiser for "Pussy Palace" by Lily Allen
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