Grade: B+
Here we go again, then, I thought — another gobbet of self-referential, breast-beating respec’ me bro sputum against a backdrop of the usual overproduced r&b pop schlock. What used to be called ‘indie’ singer-songwriters are always moaning about how utterly useless they are, taking Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ as a kind of self-flagellating worldview. Chart singer-songwriters, meanwhile, can’t stop telling everyone how absolutely bloody marvellous they are, despite being traduced, which fits right in with the extraordinary narcissism of our current youth culture, its bovine #MeToo grandstanding and exquisite sensitivities.
I don’t mind Allen, despite her irritating sub-adolescent Corbynista politics. At her best she makes light summery pop to which her agreeably affectless voice is well suited and within which the vestigial tail of Britpop can still be discerned wagging a little.
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