Lily Allen (Regal)
Lily Allen’s charisma is her biggest asset.
It certainly helps make her vocals a taste that’s worth acquiring, despite the fact they’ve no range whatsoever.
From diatribes against George W Bush to affectionate songs for her dad, she sings everything with one eyebrow raised, in a voice that’s thin and blowsy.
When it’s good, her second album is hard to resist.
The Fear is one of only a few decent pop-star-moans-about-fame singles in recent memory; other highlights include Who’d Have Known and the synth-packed kiss-off I Could Say.
But when it’s bad, it’s very, very bad.
Him, a country-tinged tune musing God, is feeble, and the Costcutter shuffle of Fuck You, the aforementioned Bush-basher, is even worse.
Whether you’re able to filter these dismal moments depends on how much slack you’re prepared to cut Allen.
But her likeability adds an extra star to a record that promises more than it delivers. WILL FULFORD-JONES
