The outspoken singer is making the sharpest pop songs that radio won’t play
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During a recent concert at New York City’s Highline Ballroom, Lily Allen paused her set to autograph a copy of her new album, Sheezus, for a fan standing close to the stage. “See?” she said into the microphone. “I’m such a nice pop star.” She adopted a fake drawl. “I’ll do anything for my fans.”
It was a typically arch moment for Allen, 29, because she is not a nice pop star–she’s a talented one and an exciting one, certainly, but not quite nice. At that performance, her first U.S. show in five years, her likably foulmouthed banter with the audience reflected a mix of anxiety (“I’ve been away for a while, so I was sh-tting myself about coming back”), self-deprecation (“Thank you to all 17 people who downloaded my album!”) and frustration (“F-ck you, male misogynistic bloggers!” she yelled at one point).