No one has heard of Lizzie Grant, but everyone knows who Lana Del Rey is, at least after the notorious SNL performance. She is all out trashy Americana with elaborately designed plastic nails, heart-shaped glasses, faux patriotic poses against the national flag and a hyped over album Born to Die, out January 31.
At the same time, Video Games, which Lana Del Rey penned, together with the rest of the album, is probably one of the best pop songs I’ve heard in a while. It’s weird, haunting and musical, let alone it sums up the tragedy of a generation in two words. It’s about the complete isolation of self from the world of other humans, the non-existence of ‘us’ in the most intimate physical spaces. While other pop divas preach the audience how ‘everyone is beautiful’ and ‘women run the world’ Lana Del Rey laments that her boyfriend won’t fuck her. If you have seen Lana Del Rey, you will understand how disturbing that is.
On Born to Die Lana Del Rey is secure enough not to scream her heart out or show off an impressive range just for the heck of it. Of late, especially with the emergence of the stupid talent shows, good singing has been equated with pure vocal ability. Had the choice of musical figures been left to natural selection, we would see more interesting vocalists like Lana Del Rey, who trembles like a petrified animal in front of a microphone, shimmers like a champagne flute about to tip over, and whose transitions can be jarring enough to embarrass the listener into holding their breath – all good things, if you ask me.
As often happens nowadays, since her first single, the Internet focused on the things that don’t matter: rich Daddy, fake lips, weak live performances; instead of focusing on the important thing – why did she strike a chord? Now with Born to Die out, there is a chance for an honest answer.
But before that, something must be said for her stunning alter ego. That girl looks like a pliable but creepy plastic doll, with her perfect pout and hair. Like a faithful Stepford wife she passionately desires to please her lowlife sugar daddy lover, whose bottomless desire cannot be quenched by definition, so she self-destructs at the hands of the said lover, orgasming all the way. Lana drowns in victimization so delicious she couldn’t care less for feminism, or her mere survival. Every song on the album is about abuse and the love of that abuse, the anticipation of S&M delights and the dangers of too much pleasure.
Maybe that’s why Born To Die is reminiscent of Tarantino and Scorsese, as well as David Lynch, both in terms of mood and sound. The mock-epic orchestrations, strings, harps, bells and eerie sound effects versus hip hop beats are simple but enchanting. The strongest songs are the first four, obviously, perhaps unwisely grouped together only to be skipped by those who’ve already heard them online.
Born To Die smells of death, and the ‘Hollywood sadcore’ melodrama is continued throughout the album, in monochromatic monotone. Given the consistency of the dark, self-effacing alter ego, the repetition, melodic and lyrical, Born To Die could be considered the most coherent concept album in years. While everyone screams of Lana Del Rey being surface deep and fake (whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean), it is not even clear if the character of Born To Die equals Lana Del Rey, or Lizzie Grant, or is pure fiction. (There seems to be an invisible line between the speaking persona and the singer, because Lana seems quite confident in interviews when speaking up but as soon as she is asked to sing she trembles and twitches uncontrollably, as if something possesses her. Fans say she is nervous. Haters say she can’t sing. They are both wrong.)
Blue Jeans is a great love song that shows exactly what kind of potential Lana Del Rey has. Off To The Races is about a bad man who ‘grabs her’, and she loves it, DUH. Radio is another melodic number. Million Dollar Man is dramatic and lyrical, taking her tragic diva persona to a whole new level of sad. The rest of ‘filler’ material hinges on self destruction, odious materialism, live-for-the-moment attitude and all encompassing passion: on National Anthem she sounds like a rapping Paris Hilton with blasphemous lyrics ‘money is the reason we exist’; Diet Mountain Dew is spastic and primitive; Dark Paradise clichéd; This Is What Makes Us Girls celebrates easy morals and reckless sex.
It looks like after the Internet sensation of Video Games, the rest of the material was simply rushed. The one-note approach seems to be a calculated decision because every song is an echo of the last song, lyrically and melodically. Of course an album like this couldn’t do without Lolita, a cheap unnecessary thrill of a song, doing no justice to its source. Depression, degradation, submission to passion and complete erosion of moral principles, danger, drugs, self destruction, insanity, promiscuity and pain – ain’t nothing new on the news...
Regardless of the album’s success, Lana Del Rey is already a character and a vision (if not a visionary). Her appearance and music have a ghostly ethereal presence; it is hard to see her eyes underneath the heavy lashes; her porcelain skin looks like pliable silicone. If there ever was a spokesperson for an expensive, pampered sex doll with her own websites and fan base, and her doting sadistic owner in tow, Lana Del Rey would be the perfect candidate. The undercurrent hysteria, the self-loathing is all there, and maybe that’s what sets her apart from the army of females singing about loving themselves, putting their heels on and not needing a man.
Lana Del Rey is just plain strange, which is refreshing. Her twitchy SNL performance, self-conscious and detached at the same time, was jaw dropping. There is obviously more to her than meets the eye or the ear, but what it is, is clearly not revealed on Born To Die. She sings about ‘blurring the lines between real and the fake’ but her detached voice suggests it’s been a while since she really felt anything. Nothingness and emptiness that rings in her head rings in her voice as well, too bored to portray anything beyond that terrifying apathy.
Is she the reason for the horror of this one-dimensionality or is she simply reflecting on it?
With its apocalyptic undertones Lana Del Rey’s Born To Die seems to answer the question of what to do before it all goes belly up in the most convenient way possible: have fun, get high and ‘skip heart beats with the boys downtown’, making it the perfect soundtrack for our strange empty times.
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