What We're Listening To

Have you ever managed to read all the way to the bottom of a Myspace page without getting a headache?

Below the music, the bio and the pictures lie the deep, endless catacombs of idiocy, populated by badly-spelled mumblings which are coughed up as hastily and pointlessly as an emoticon hairball.

This is the voice of Lily Allen's second album, a well-produced, danceable electronica collection tarred by the conceited prattle of its creator.

Lily's face has been monotonously slapped on the front of the London free papers for a couple of years. But that doesn't mean the girl's got insight, as anyone who's had to listen to Madonna will tell you. As a result, while she tries to paint herself as a social commentator, she ends up sounding more like a spiteful cow.

The tabloid darling limply swipes at celeb culture in The Fear, Not Fair is so self-congratulatory in its bawdiness that it's cringeworthy, and F*ck You hits the easy target of racism without offering anything interesting.

While the music itself is slick, it's about as meaningful as listening to an airhead's deafening mobile phone chat on the bus.
John Hill