“I might not write a very good second album. The thing to do is not take yourself so seriously. The moment when you sort of start to believe all that stuff is when you get in trouble.” That’s Lily Allen talking to Pitchfork in November 2006. At that point, her MySpace clarion of a debut, Alright, Still, was four months into what would become a 17-month stint on the UK’s album chart. With her bluntly nonchalant, blog-like songwriting about dudes with small dicks, breezy beats worthy of a terrible Ska-lright, Still joke, and link-happy marketing campaign from the web up, Allen offered the music industry a way forward if not fiscally, at least artistically. She was the New Pop Star– slight voice, bawdy, prom dress ‘n’ trainers, self-sufficient. The Anti-Idol. “Refreshing” followed her; “candid” was her friend. And, more than anything, Lily Allen was funny, excelling in the droll British humor of someone who had sold drugs in Ibiza at age 15 and realized the absurdity of a 15-year-old selling drugs in Ibiza.

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