Lola Young: Chaos, Catharsis and the Magnificent 'I’m Only F**king Myself'

LOLA YOUNG

I'M ONLY F**KING MYSELF (ISLAND)

It’s not difficult to imagine Lola Young with an ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend in a headlock outside a pub at two in the morning, careening into oncoming traffic and thoroughly enjoying it. Then, of course, becoming best friends with her ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend, taking her home and having an intense two week fling with her before it all turns to crap with a screaming match in the local park on a Sunday afternoon.

I’m Only F**king Myself is that sort of album and it’s magnificent. In an age when women are absolutely dominating the music charts, Ms. Young has staked a claim at the top of the heap and you’d have to be brave or stupid not to shuffle to one side to make space.

There’s a glorious feeling of barely controlled chaos shot through the whole thing. Unexpectedly fuzzy guitars, odd choppy effects here and there that derail songs like an armful of dropped crockery. And good lord, that voice. Not entirely under control at all times, situated somewhere between a category 5 cyclone and a nice cup of tea. Her rough edges have been beautifully captured and preserved. Thankfully she’s been spared the diamond hard sheen that makes it so easy to leave others behind (sorry Sabrina).

LOLA YOUNG I’m Only F**king Myself

Which is not to say that there aren’t a generous number of catchy pop gems here. 'D£aler' and 'Walk All Over You' are light, airy and infectious, destined for huge festival crowd singalongs. And if 'Post Sex Clarity' or 'Penny Out Of Nothing' don’t soundtrack a moody cinematic heroine or two staring out of a rain spattered window over a steaming mug of coffee then somebody’s not doing their job.

On the other hand, sitting like a monolith on the track listing is 'SPIDERS'. It’s a bristling, brooding, pissed off master class in song dynamics, swinging from crystal clear melancholy to go fuck yourself and back again without feeling forced or overblown. The production is simple, unfussy and completely at the service of Young’s voice, as it should be.

Brilliantly bookending the album are two recordings from an unnamed friend of Young’s - a phone message at the start and a poem at the end. It’s a lovely gesture towards the value of a friendship holding true while sex, drugs, bad relationships and all the other bullshit tries to batter you senseless. Whoever she is, her friend is there at the start, and there at the end. Everything is okay. And that might well be the whole point of the album.

Is it a soul-baring confessional or a work of fiction? Don’t know and don’t care. A little bit of both, most likely. Whatever it is, I’m Only F**king Myself is a remarkable record from an artist who’s just getting started. Here’s hoping she can remain unvarnished, inspired and defiant for decades to come.