Lily Allen Gave a Masterclass in Public Shaming at the Paramount on Thursday Night

“Who the fuck is Madeline?” 

It was the question echoed around the world when Lily Allen released West End Girl last fall. Madeline—introduced on the album’s fourth track “Tennis”—was immediately inducted into the harlot hall of fame, alongside Becky with the Good Hair and Jolene. West End Girl was Allen’s first album in seven years, written over a ten-day period following her split from husband, actor, and now public enemy #1, David Harbour (of Stranger Things). While the album’s lyrics read like a diary, detailing a PUD (that’s “Poly Under Duress,” as coined by Dan Savage) relationship fraught with infidelity, the album hits on something more universal: harm caused by a passive man. “You let me think it was me in my head and nothing to do with them girls in your bed,” she coos on “Sleepwalking.” Allen highlights that being cheated on isn’t always dramatic or explosive, but often a mundane, arduous emotional path strewn with gaslighting. However, Allen gets the last word. West End Girl is a masterclass in public shaming, reminding us that it’s often the most powerful way to destroy a man who done you wrong.

We were all here for it, as a sea of polka dots, Peter Pan collars, and baby bangs filed into the Paramount Theatre last night to hear Allen unpack her revenge epic. But before we got our hearts shattered into a million pieces with West End Girl, we were warmed up by a trio of cellists, Dallas Minor, who graced the stage and provided classical renditions of Allen’s hits like “LDN,” “The Fear,” “Hard Out Here,” “Alfie,” and even “5 O’Clock,” which was famously sampled by T-Pain in 2011. The audience acted as a chorus as we sang the lyrics, projected karaoke-style on a screen above the stage. The trio closed with a joyful rendition of “Fuck You,” which the crowd chanted gleefully in a British accent.

While we waited for Allen, my sister and I sipped our Fruityloop cocktails (blood orange juice, coconut milk, vodka, and soda), which were mixed specially for the event, and, appropriately, tasted like colorful cereal and revenge. When we saw a spotted baby blue puffer jacket, as seen on the West End Girl album cover, I squealed and sneakily snapped a photo like some kind of frenzied paparazzi. One woman’s glorious Priscilla Presley-style bouffant had me scrolling for vintage-style half wigs on my phone, which, in retrospect, is the only reasonable thing to be doing while waiting for Allen to arrive. 

Then, at last, the theater went dark, and Sheezus herself emerged from behind a green lamé curtain to roaring applause. She presented her incredible outfit with a twirl: a silver strapless mini dress with a giant bow on her back, just like a Christmas present, finished with chrome platform shoes. The show started just like the album, with the title track—a song about getting the lead in a play in London, but her actor husband questions the legitimacy of the offer. She gets the last laugh, as she’s now touring the world, acting out the story of his infidelity, blow-by-blow on the world’s largest stages. There were elaborate sets. There were costume changes. At times, there were actual tears falling from her eyes, forcing the audience to ask, is she acting, or is she actually getting emotional? 

More highlights from the show: Allen gave the complete “Madeline” monologue in an American accent, reciting her email exchange with the now-infamous other woman. The set dressing looked eerily similar to her and Harbour’s also-infamous Brooklyn townhouse, as shown on Architectural Digest’s Open Door. At one point, a bubblegum pink vintage-style refrigerator was wheeled out on the stage; it contained a glass of water and her vape—likely matcha-flavored—which she hit on two separate occasions. During “Relapse,” Allen dumped the contents of her Birkin bag onto the stage to reveal a pill bottle, a little plastic jar of Extra peppermint gum, and a bottle of Valentino Donna Born In Roma perfume (finally, my esoteric knowledge of perfume bottles came in handy). During “Dallas Major,” a giant three-tiered cake rose beneath her until she was poised on top, a lone bride figurine. As she sang the opening lines to“Nonmonogomummy,” she tied on a pink frilly apron that read “cuck.”

By the end of the show, and thus, the album, the “apartment” had been nearly emptied. Allen stumbled aimlessly around the large, open space, singing the tracks “Beg For Me” and “Let You W/In” with an air of disillusionment and fatigue. “I will not absorb your shame / it’s you who put me through this.” The show culminated in the hopeful realization of “Fruityloop,” a dreamy song about finally freeing herself: “Wish I could fix all your shit, but all your shit’s yours to fix.” Allen sang it with a sparkle in her eye, ending with the ultimate exhale: “Finally I see / It’s not me, it’s you.”

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