Lana Del Rey - Born to sing

Genesis of a diva

New York, June 21, 1985. The Big Apple is about to welcome its first day of summer, caught between a cocktail to sip at Orchard Beach and a shot to aim at the Greenwich Village playground known as "The Cage". We're in the middle of the much-celebrated Eighties, the United States is at the peak of its splendor, and capitalism has by now sunk its teeth into the Communist bear ahead of the final reckoning. These are the days of peak Reaganite expansion. Everything gleams. Shopping malls serve as the social hub of an economic boom reminiscent of the so-called Roaring Twenties, while the radio celebrates Bruce Springsteen, Bryan Adams and Madonna. It is in this glittering, seemingly reassuring cradle that Elizabeth Woolridge Grant is born – known to the world as Lana Del Rey. Raised in Lake Placid, daughter of Rob Grant, a web entrepreneur who would support her music career from the very start, little Elizabeth spends her childhood in an almost enchanted world. A welcoming microcosm that, sadly, would soon turn into a real nightmare. Adolescence would in fact prove the darkest, most dangerous period of Grant's life: by the age of fifteen she had already fallen, much like "just another" Drew Barrymore, into the grip of alcohol. A drama she would confront by taking refuge at the Kent School, the ideal place to get help.

Having quickly escaped the bottle's grip, the future pop star decides to pursue philosophy studies at Fordham University. A heartfelt choice, much like her decision to help the homeless and alcoholics at a New York recovery community, further proof of a big, noble heart. The same heart that would go on to fuel the lyrics of her earliest songs.

After learning to play guitar at eighteen, twenty-year-old Elizabeth starts performing in New York clubs under the stage name May Jailer, the moniker under which she even records a demo-like album in 2005, Sirens, followed by Rock Me Stable, recorded this time under her own given name.

From her very first "cries", Lana draws inspiration from an imagery buried by memory, by the relentless flow of disposable trends, and by an increasingly disorienting star-system. Lana chases the memory of a genuine America, authentic to its core; she dreams of the America of the Fifties, of rural life and its noble farms. But above all, the America of drive-ins and Playboy magazines hidden under the bed, or left on the empty seat of a truck tearing down Route 66 like a wild horse of the old West. The New York singer-songwriter also loves the lightness and sunshine of the West Coast, as well as the drawings of Sam Rockwell and his "damn" romantic realism.

After all, she herself is an incurable romantic. A die-hard fan of vintage cars, of white Mustangs, as well as the far more affordable Ford Del Rey, one of the best-selling cars among her father's generation. A brand name that also became her own moniker. Meanwhile, her graceful movements have, from the very start, evoked all the sensuality of the unforgettable Bettie Page. Lana Del Rey is indeed a true heroine paying homage to a very specific aesthetic of the past. An unconventional diva who emerged onto the music scene that matters in the mid-2000s. A world in which she appeared like a faded postcard depicting a pin-up left for years in the drawer of an abandoned Texas garage. A vision as alluring as it is a product of a world that no longer exists. An America light years away from today's. Certainly, an America still capable of believing in a dream that would slowly crumble amid the blood-soaked plantations of Vietnam, the Balkan bombs, and above all those dropped in the Middle East.

The United States celebrated in Lana Del Rey's songs have nothing to envy in today's America – quite the opposite: through them lives on the memory of a utopia that, throughout the long postwar period, fueled the hopes of a better world for several generations. Hopes experienced not only across the Atlantic, but throughout the whole Western world. A dream and an imagery fully embraced and espoused by Del Rey, often framed by a love for her own country proclaimed from the rooftops in every possible way, perhaps clutching the stars and stripes tightly in yet another music video released in droves, like the countless unofficial ghost tracks never included on an official record. A flag held close, as if it were a lover about to leave for the front. A visceral love for America extolled in her lyrics and glorified with melodies of a bygone era. Notes that seem to reunite, somewhere in an undefined corner of the musical galaxy, Angelo Badalamenti and Chris Isaak, Judy Garland and Hope Sandoval.

To get a sense of just how otherworldly and essentially out of step with a certain contemporary sensibility she is, just watch her live rendition of the gorgeous "Video Games" in one of her earliest American appearances. Slow-motion movements and a femme-fatale gaze capable of leveling an entire Marines barracks: these are the first signs of the American musician's talent. An innate ability to soar and descend with her voice, without giving listeners time to grasp the spatial and temporal coordinates, a gift belonging only to the truly great. The debuting Lana Del Rey is a goddess out of another era, tiptoeing into the second decade of the new millennium. A debut preceded by a first, tentative EP, Kill Kill, produced in 2008 under the stage name Lana Del Rey A.K.A. Lizzy Grant.

Her first real launching pad, however, is YouTube. It's from there that, a few months later, the definitive Lana Del Rey would land her first irresistible hits, leading her straight into the arms of the label Stranger Records. It's the prelude to her first full-fledged consecration in 2012. The semi-amateur video for "Video Games" would in fact be the first firework shot high into the sky of pop music. A short film containing everything that Lana Del Rey would later reveal to the world, enchanting it beyond measure, racking up staggering numbers, landing dream covers for any self-respecting top model, and even earning the admiration of brands like Gucci, which would often favor her over the far skinnier, more cybernetic models of the day.

From Anonymity to Vogue

The music industry of the first two years of the new millennium's second decade is winding down, scraping together the few acts suited to mainstream audiences from the vast landscape of musicians thriving thanks to the internet and lo-fi production. The huge success of Adele convinces a few managers to invest resources in finding pop artists balanced between mainstream and alternative. Moreover, the void left by Amy Winehouse leaves great American pop music in limbo. Whether guilty or a victim of this crossover into indie pop, Lana Del Rey slowly becomes the figure capable of drawing enormous attention from the mass media. Inevitably, this shifts focus away from the music and onto the artist's authenticity.

Born To Die, the New York muse's debut LP, calls for a double reading: beyond its purely musical content, the media phenomenon surrounding it also deserves analysis. A string of news stories and scoops shifts the public's expectations and early assumptions, and the naive, shy rising star leaves behind the hearts of her first enthusiastic bloggers to enter the much larger, more professional production system of the major record labels. Anyone familiar with over sixty years of rock history cannot deny the importance of promotion (now snobbishly referred to as marketing) in building pop-rock culture, and there's nothing new about managers and producers taking an interest in an emerging talent. Although no one ever accused the Sex Pistols of selling out by signing to the major label Emi-Virgin, nor the Velvet Underground of recording for the puritanical, outdated Verve/Mgm (indeed, their move to Atlantic came as a result of a purge by the label's president, who was quick to drop any artist involved with drugs), in 2012 the indie-addicted online crowd demands revenge for the deception supposedly perpetrated behind their backs by Lana Del Rey/Elizabeth Grant. Perhaps her earliest, most hot-headed supporters feel let down, having believed she was somehow their own protégée. But Lana is "simply" a mature, self-aware woman. She walks her own path. If anything, gossip and marketing paved her road to success and fame.

Evidently, people willfully ignore that the Born To Die project gathers the seeds of long, patient work, following a debut released digitally and then, shrewdly, withdrawn by the label 5 Points, and especially after the song "Video Games" – markedly different from standard radio pop – managed to win unexpected acclaim on iTunes and among internet listeners. The artist's own reservations, among other things, speak volumes against any supposed promotional scheme. It's understandable that some were dismayed to learn, almost in disbelief, of Del Rey's passion for high fashion, or of the sizeable team working behind the scenes on her behalf. There are also friendships with an emerging artist (Woodkid) known for his commercials for Lipton and Vogue and his music videos for Katy Perry, and (the horror!) Lana even employs a team of lawyers to avoid being swindled by the music business. Poor naive keepers of artistic purity, indie fans initially struggle to take the blow, dazzled by the beauty (undeniable, that much is true) of "Video Games", only to feel fooled by the business side of things. Where she was once celebrated and adored, now there's only room for inevitable plagiarism accusations ("Video Games" allegedly resembles a song by Greek artist Eleni Vitali, "Dromoi Agapisa Pou"), snide remarks delivered with pouting lips, or criticism over underwhelming live performances (her Saturday Night Live appearance was called "disastrous"); the accusations rain down as if a horde of jilted lovers were exposing the secrets hidden beneath the sheets. But the truth lies only in her music, a personal treasure that Lana Del Rey releases in complete freedom, one that must have haunted more than a few erotic dreams.

Born To Die is a pop album, and pop music doesn't list authenticity as a primary requirement. What remains clear is her ability to write songs that absorb the illusions and hopes of her generation. If Nancy Sinatra is the reference most often invoked, other illustrious predecessors shouldn't go unmentioned: Bobbie Gentry, Peggy Lee, Dusty Springfield, Lulu, Julie London could all stand in for Lana Del Rey's image on the cover without changing a thing. Her femme fatale look, poised somewhere between Marlene Dietrich, Judy Garland and Jessica Rabbit, conceals just enough listlessness and fragility to occasionally make things feel a little clumsy, but it betrays real emotion underneath.

"Video Games" remains a true bolt from the blue for pop music, it's her own "Time After Time" – even if there'll be no Miles Davis to ferry it into eternity. Even the ambiguous lyrical and sonic constructions of "Blue Jeans" reveal new details with every listen, its trip-hop pulses perfectly suited to Lana's interpretive gifts.

Having moved to Scotland, the singer pours her "made in USA" past into the soul inflections of the intriguing, unsettling "Off To The Races", a dark, murky soul-hip-hop track that gains depth with repeated listens, morphing from what might seem a harmonic mess into a punk-pop version of Portishead.

Less convincing, however, are the other soul-pop crossovers: “National Anthem” (complete with a nod to “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by the Verve) and “Summertime Sadness” are guilty of recycling the same sonic archetypes, lacking evocative magic and betraying obvious naivety. The title track “Born To Die”, though still divisive for many, is instead one of the record's most compelling sonic solutions, and the dark-gothic touch that defines the song – much like Yoann Lemoine's (Woodkid) video – is the album's most ambitious and successful achievement.

Lana Del Rey is growing alongside her songs: the caressing naivety of “Diet Mountain Dew”, “Dark Paradise” and “Lolita” (one of the three bonus tracks on the limited edition) feels right at home on any pop album and loses none of its verve. The autobiographical charm of “Radio”, the sugary pulse of “Carmen” and the pregnant, Macy Gray-esque soul strut of “This Is What Makes Us Girls” complete a rich and complex picture, making the record something more than a mere collection of singles. Marked throughout by impeccable production (perhaps just a touch too uniform), “Born To Die” is pure pop. Lana likes to call it Hollywood Sadcore, but the abundance of standout tracks makes it richer and more lovable, and the enchanting notes of the superb “Million Dollar Man” – an elegant, sensual torch song that Fiona Apple would surely covet for her own repertoire – stand as proof of a genuine talent.

Lana is no one-hit wonder, and her music restores a love of pop even in the most faint-hearted. “Video Games” is the perfect example of pop that transcends boundaries, able to move more than one kind of sensibility, and the song is destined to be one of the most covered and reinterpreted of the coming decade. If that's not enough for some, well, they might at least have the good grace to keep quiet.

A year after the pointless debates and hazy critical theorizing, Lana Del Rey celebrates the nearly three million copies sold of Born To Die by offering an EP of eight songs that skilfully stir up the same doubts as the parent album. Less glossy and uniform than Born To Die, the Paradise EP is not a cynical, bland add-on, but a manifesto of creativity that remains open to the pull of other musical landscapes. Once again, America on the road is the protagonist of her music, and “Ride” and the following “American” almost play like a female version of Bruce Springsteen (the “Tunnel Of Love” era, to be precise), marked by a distracted yet evocative sense of quotation, while Lana Del Rey underscores it all with dreamy vocal openings caught between sensual sighs and the occasional scream, achieving a singular emotional control that reveals solid, self-aware songwriting.

One is also struck by her ability to turn the predictable “Cola” into yet another stylistic exercise, which is merely the appetizer before the three hidden gems tucked into this “Paradise Edition” (the Born To Die album with this EP appended to it). The almost dark structure of “Body Electric” picks up where “Video Games” and “Blue Jeans” left off, dragging them into a more intimate, less mainstream dimension, while “Gods & Monsters” is a pop song that, in the hands of glossier producers and singers, would have become a runaway multi-million-selling single. The rediscovery of the former B-side “Yayo” adds another piece to Lana Del Rey's melancholy songbook of confessions, which, together with “Million Dollar Man” and the aforementioned “Video Games”, brings into play all the elements of the most cultured female songwriting, laced with a thoroughly personal sensuality.

It's “Bel Air”, however, that stands as the true gem, erasing any doubt about her genuine artistic stature, with its graceful dream-pop arrangement and sinuous vocal harmonies that take on new shape with every listen, revealing fresh nuances. Although the irritation at a commercial operation like the “Paradise Edition” is understandable, the eight unreleased tracks and the three bonus tracks from the original limited edition gathered here are more than enough to offer a satisfying rereading of the whole project, whose shadow already looms over mainstream pop production (see Rihanna's “Diamonds”). Lana's musical universe flaunts a female sensibility that can be fantasized about but remains hard to fully grasp. A woman who talks about sex (“my pussy tastes like Pepsi Cola”, she declares without shame in “Cola”), who relies on a team of men to realize her ambitions (producer Rick Rubin on “Ride”), and who never gives up the gossip or the sensual power of her image, can be an object of desire, but never truly loved. Del Rey's music is like a clandestine affair that disrupts the household, putting your domestic peace at risk: it whispers the notes of the sensual “Blue Velvet” to you without much passion but with just enough mischief to stir the imagination, leaving you aware that the best is yet to come, in songs forever balanced between authenticity and deceit that flow by like the soundtrack to an imaginary film.

Ultraviolence and Body Snatchers

The moment of truth for Lana Del Rey arrives in 2014: was Born To Die a genuine musical event, or is it all a fake? The conspiracy theorists are already as worked up as they were back in the days of Bill Kaysing's book “We Never Went To The Moon”, and everything seems to lend credit to theories about the non-existence of the whole record-industry event (good lord, many people believe this without even going so far as to suggest an actual conspiracy or historical fraud). Kaysing claimed that in the 60s technology wasn't advanced enough to reach the Moon; modern conspiracy theorists argue that scientific progress has given rise to a virtual world where anything is possible, with Del Rey being merely the latest incarnation of Lara (note the coincidence) Croft-style heroines. The Americans faked the Moon landing for economic reasons; the Rey conspiracy exists to generate buzz around a record industry in perpetual crisis. Obviously Stanley Kubrick (the title is, after all, a nod to his “A Clockwork Orange”) was no longer available to shoot the fake footage for this record-label enterprise, so enter the name of David Lynch, the perfect director to bring to life a contemporary diva of mysterious, ambiguous contours. Either way, this story seems full of shadows and light, starting with the patriotic flag waving in the preview for Born To Die: could it be the same one from the Moon landing? Are Lana's lips so large only because of a photographic error of perspective that failed to account for lighting and reflectors, or is it some crude oversight by the director? Are the photo retouches there to hide her true nature? Conspiracies and jokes aside, one undeniable fact remains: the success of Born To Die. Lana Del Rey's name is one of the few to have entered the collective imagination (once known simply as “collective consciousness”), one of the few contemporary idols known both to young indie fans and to older devotees of Pink Floyd or Radiohead, and I swear there's nothing more amusing than watching the grimace on a friend's face when you ask them: “Do you like her?”

The singer's success is undoubtedly also the result of flawless marketing, which has managed to focus attention on the persona as much as on the music. The difference, however, with those artists who in recent years have represented chart-topping pop music (Rihanna, Kanye West, Beyoncé, Justin Timberlake, Lady Gaga, Pharrell Williams) lies in the artistic self-awareness of the woman at its centre and her deeper, more intimate creative involvement, less beholden to chart-driven logic.

Born To Die was a record with a crowd-pleasing, crossover appeal, able to reconcile mainstream sensibility with indie phenomenology, but those songs represent the identity that Elizabeth Woolridge Grant chose to give her creation: the glamorous allure, the Lynch-like dark touch, the recurring themes of death, sex and the rituals tied to them (loving bad boys, dressing/undressing in fiery red) form the script within which the artist moves comfortably, a virtual reality where she can be authentic and artificial at the very same time.

It's therefore no surprise that Ultraviolence sounds like the sequel to a blockbuster hit, but what immediately strikes even the most distracted and cynical listener is the new sonic garment stitched around the songs, a refined, monochromatic tone steeped in blues, country and dream-pop, constantly revealing endless shades of nuance. Conspiracy theorists will have a hard time tearing down the new undertaking from the 28-year-old New Yorker: the eleven songs on Ultraviolence (fourteen on the limited edition) are even more intense, and if many will find them similar or closely related, it's only because Lana Del Rey's personality emerges no matter what she sings, even now that her voice seems to address, in ecstatic tones, an audience of wandering, bodiless souls.

The powerful orchestrations are gone, and the sing-song melodies have thinned out: here the lyrical languor follows more in the footsteps of “Body Electric” and “Yayo” from the “Paradise EP”, or her untouchable “Video Games”, while the energy of the guitars and a heavier use of echo and reverb expand the pathos and grandiloquence of the sound, preserving that sensual density of an erotic-noir film set, even as repeated listens keep revealing fresh sources of pleasure, like the almost shoegaze tone of “Cruel World”.

Fans of conspiracy theories can rest easy, because once the fog of gossip and pointless theorizing about Lana Del Rey's feminine-feminist image clears away, what's left is an album of beautiful songs whose persuasive power grows over time: the first single “West Coast” is the only track where traces remain of the trip-hop that stirred beneath many songs on “Born To Die”, but producer Dan Auerbach (yes, the one from the Black Keys) has channelled those rhythmic impulses into a roots context that the Julee Cruise-style angelic choir makes even more dramatic and biting.

The subsequent video-clips for “Shades Of Cool” and “Ultraviolence” made the album's narcoleptic tone, and the more psychological nature of Lana Del Rey's songwriting, even clearer, as she now seems determined to break down the wall between pop and songwriting after having already dismantled the indie-against-mainstream prejudice. “West Coast” didn't conquer the charts (a modest number 20 in the UK), but the title track seems to have just what it takes to captivate the audience that came to know her voice through the soundtracks of “Maleficent” and “The Great Gatsby”. Smooth and full of dreamy atmosphere, “Ultraviolence” is a seemingly innocuous track that nonetheless sets the coordinates for the whole record, a collection of songs about personal dramas, shattered dreams and broken friendships, forming a concept album more cohesive and mature than its hit predecessor.

This isn't an album born out of contractual obligation or an attempt to cash in on the success of its predecessor: the absence of an obvious hit single is no accident. “Shades Of Cool” is the sharpest lyrical break from the past: its airy, ethereal melody, less baroque than in the past, brings together Pink Floyd, Cocteau Twins, Portishead and Goldfrapp, becoming one of Ultraviolence's great strengths. Lana gave no credit to those who had already branded “West Coast” a commercial suicide: she was far more excited by the prospect of meeting Lou Reed to offer him a collaboration on “Brooklyn Baby” (the countermelody heard on the track evokes his unmistakable style), but her dream was shattered just hours before the musician's death. Luckily, this vice-ridden, dusty ballad still shines here like a lighthouse: a brilliant lyrical intuition destined to carry on the legacy of “Video Games”.

What's surprising is the more cohesive and unflappable quality of the songs: the near-blues of "Sad Girl" would be hailed as a miracle on any other pop album, while here it's just another good song, while a potentially electrifying single like "Money Power Glory" is left stranded between the two rawest tracks, namely the harrowing Patti Smith/David Gilmour-style prayer of "Pretty When You Cry" and the sullen "Fucked My Way Up To The Top", which lingers on the musician's lyrical and musical obsessions without the same verve, ending up as the weakest moment on the album.

At this point it's clear to the reader that the authenticity, or the alleged mystification, of the character matters little. Ultraviolence is a film even more gripping and convincing than Born To Die: the urgency and drive for redemption that pressed behind the lavish, epic pages of the previous chapter are now distant; in this ecstatic, enchanted world of the artist there's more room for dream and romanticism, as is evident in the album's two closing tracks. Piano, strings and voice reach their emotional peak in the overwhelming romanticism of "Old Money", where refined echoes of Nino Rota can be heard, while the cover of Jessie Mae Robinson's "The Other Woman" (made famous by Nina Simone and later covered by Jeff Buckley and Sarah Vaughan) further reveals the dreamlike character of the record, with that voice seemingly captured on an old gramophone, closing the circle that inexorably ties the artist to the past of American stardom.

Despite the gossip and the inevitable criticism that will follow the album (of course, you can always choose to believe there's no conspiracy theory at all, and in doing so become part of it yourself), the quality of the songs shifts the focus back to the music. For those who choose to buy the limited edition, it will be interesting to discover that it hides one of the most innovative and intriguing tracks sound-wise, the near psych-blues of "Guns And Roses", as well as an esoteric vocal performance ("Black Beauty") and another decisive break from chart-friendly pop ("Florida Kilos") — three tracks left off for being less sonically striking and rougher around the edges.

Less than twelve months on, it's increasingly clear that Lana Del Rey has chosen to be herself and not bow to the countless theories about her future that fans and press cooked up after the critical triumph of Ultraviolence. Forget hip-hop and grandiose productions: the follow-up, Honeymoon, is the sonic equivalent of "Sunset Boulevard", a project in which the persona finally breaks away from the soul of its creator and becomes the icon of an even more refined and painful sonic fiction, where boredom and waiting replace the clamor of success and the glare of the spotlight. "I lost myself and I lost you too", Lana sings in "Terrence Loves You", as if underlining that melodic languor which now seems to take definitive hold of her style.

She's the diva who isn't a diva, fearlessly declaring "I don't have much to live for since I found fame" in "God Knows I Tried", mocking men by reducing them to mere objects in "High By The Beach" (“sei un figlio di puttana/ ma questo non ti rende uomo/ la verità e che non ho mai fatto spesa nelle vostre stronzate/ non ho bisogno del tuo denaro per ottenere ciò che voglio”), in an almost cinematic depiction that recalls less the women of David Lynch than the few but essential female presences of "Querelle De Brest". More fragile and human, but also surreal and Fellini-esque in her lascivious craving to be kissed by the sun, “tutto è luminoso ora/ niente più giornate nuvolose/ anche quando arriva la tempesta/ tutto quello che facciamo è giocare/ e ascoltare musica come ‘Lay Lady Lay’’”, she sings in "Religion", hinting at a willingness to surrender to life's vacuous but wholesome passions (“non è mai stato una questione di soldi o di droga/ per voi, c’è solo l’amore/ perché sei la mia religione/ quando sono in ginocchio, è come se pregassi”), in an erotic-sensual whirlwind that becomes even more explicit on "Freak" (“Baby, se vuoi andar via/ vieni in California/ sii freak come me/ baciami mentre lo facciamo/ amarmi è tutto quello di cui hai bisogno per sentirmi”).

The musical atmosphere wrapped around the songs on Honeymoon is languid, an evolution-involution where there's little room left for the pop pandering that still runs rampant in supermarket music. The songs' structures are more conventional, with verse and refrain, and a subtle jazz-blues thread running from Nina Simone to the Miles Davis of "Sketches Of Spain", with the smooth, romantic interlude of "Salvatore" carrying the scent of Marlene Dietrich and Jeanne Moreau.

Narcissistic, self-indulgent, narcoleptic, repetitive, melancholic — these are the adjectives already lined up to greet Honeymoon, the very same ones once used to label Van Morrison or Leonard Cohen. Not that Lana has the same stature as either of them, but it's food for thought that pushes the analysis toward the songwriting itself.

Lana has said that the title track is the song where the album begins and ends, confirming that this is the music she loves, with no interest in chasing fashion or hype. The opening trio of songs isn't just a string of torch songs infatuated with pop and muzak, but a thorough showcase of the lyrical complexity of her songwriting, with melodies chasing and alternating with one another without ever altering the record's sonic humus.

Honeymoon offers no fewer than four distinct melodies, modulated with real skill, and an almost flawless use of orchestration, while "Music To Watch Boys To" leafs through the pages of trip-hop and melodrama with a soaring refrain. But the high point is the excellent "Terrence Loves You", which brings together the Bowie of "Space Oddity" and the Miles Davis of "Time After Time" over an almost jazz, relentlessly Lynch-ian backdrop, with hinted sax phrasing and a sharper refrain that quotes the Thin White Duke's Major Tom.

As with every Del Rey album, everyone will find their own favorite track to keep them from writing it off and walking away for good, whether it's the minimalist, almost obsessive "God Knows I Tried", the electro-soul of "Freak" (somewhere in the territory of the best How To Dress Well), the normalizing "Religion", or even the Latin-tinged, almost burlesque "Salvatore" (a tribute to her Italian ex-boyfriend?).

For the diehards, there are four more tracks worth a closer look and listen: the modern soul of "Art Deco", embellished with bursts of sax; the potential hit "The Blackest Day", which stands out for its catchiness despite its dark tone; and above all "24", a torch song with mariachi flourishes where the emotional tension feels more palpable and vivid. Though I'm convinced it will be the near-perfect sweetness of "Swan Song" that wins over the most reluctant listeners (if only because she sings "I'm not gonna sing anymore"), another example of excellent writing and arrangement that fittingly closes the sequence opened by the title track, before a harmless, superfluous cover of "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood" brings down the curtain on the most deliberately dull and flat album Lana has made so far. Another slap in the face of music-business conventions from an artist who, rather than chasing success, has been chased by it — a woman baring herself in a sonic strip-tease that upends the rules of those social platforms where fiction and reality blur together.

Honeymoon is the melancholy and despair hiding behind the outward display of apparent happiness, a hazy chill-out record where emotions drift by inert, almost lost — the saddest, least comforting pop album ever made by a chart-topping star.

God bless America

In 2017, an ever bigger star of the web and of global pop, Lana Del Rey closes a circle with the album Lust For Life — or rather, a square, since its cover features four images tied together by a thread that's both subtle and explicit. The singer's face is constantly paired with a motor vehicle, dominating a photographic imagery that evolves like a cinematic and literary sequence, ultimately underlining a clearly defined creative trajectory. Behind the proud, impenetrable gaze of Born To Die, in fact, lurks a pick-up truck: the perfect vehicle to capture Jack Kerouac's "on the road" myth and relocate it into the Lynchian modernism so dear to the artist. The sensuality typical of a film-noir heroine, on the other hand, takes center stage on the cover of Ultraviolence, a black-and-white photo that lines up Roman Polanski's horror movies with Francis Ford Coppola's gangster movies. On Honeymoon, Lana's face takes a back seat — she barely hints at a smile — while, leaning from the edge of a Hollywood-style tour-mobile, she bids farewell to the myth, reopening direct contact with her audience through a private phone number (1-800-268-7886) printed on the cover. On Lust For Life, the artist starts up the old, now battered and faded pick-up truck from Born To Die once more, flashing an outgoing, illusory smile, thus bridging the time gap that led many critics to dismiss her music as nostalgic and conservative.

Probably the American artist's only real sin is that she uses not just the language of her generation but also its tools: even the photos look like auteur selfies, yet through this interplay of media Lana Del Rey has given rise to a new kind of "diva", never beholden to the logic of a star-system that has long impoverished women's presence in rock history, often reducing them to pure image. Behind the sensual, "feminine" presence of the American artist lies a sensitive universe that doesn't belong to the world of men, a declaration of independence that refuses to yield to the constant lure of easy success. It is, in any case, the album of renewal, a project that opens the door to other artists in order to shake up a stylistic framework that can sometimes feel static, yet despite the countless collaborations and concessions, there's no hint of an identity crisis. The Beatles-esque gait that colors the notes of "Tomorrow Never Came" isn't new to Lana Del Rey's songbook; Sean Lennon's presence merely reinforces lyrical synergies that already existed (see "West Coast" as an example), the only novelty being that delicate acoustic shimmer, which now evokes little gems like "Something" and "Imagine". The explicit nod to Radiohead's famous "Creep" in the closing "Get Free" is matched by the quote from "Don't Worry Baby" in the opening "Love", placing past and present on the same plane. And it's precisely in "Love", in its opening line, that the universe of the American musician can be summed up: "Look at your children while you listen to vintage music, she comes from the satellites sailing through space; you're part of the past but now you're in the future, the navigation signals can confuse you, there's enough to make you feel crazy, crazy, crazy".

And it's precisely this strange, unsettling time gap that marks the real cultural revolution of Lust For Life, an album that heightens its emotional contrasts by marrying old film-noir melancholy with hip-hop and other suggestions drawn from the vast American pop imagination. The collaboration with The Weeknd doesn't just yield a brilliant, mellow-toned electro-soul track, but also one of the most captivating songs in her catalogue. Conversely, the interaction with A$AP Rocky produces two almost dissonant songs: while on "Groupie Love" the voice climbs an octave (Lana's singing spans a full three octaves), on the other track, "Summer Bummer", the tone drops an octave, striking foggy, crepuscular notes tinged with delicate melancholy.

With Lust For Life, Lana Del Rey retraces the path of Ultraviolence, sharpening some of her finest lyrical insights: the delightful orchestral noir touch of "13 Beaches" wouldn't be out of place in some future 007 instalment, while the excellent "When The World Was At War We Kept Dancing" projects everything into the future with a sensual, unhealthy electro-acoustic melody, confirming her ability to rework and renew the same elements without ever lapsing into repetition. Her most commercial project since Born To Die, the album also confirms that Lana doesn't belong to the indie world, favoring piano over acoustic guitar in open conflict with the indolent tone of modern folk-pop songwriting — and it's in this vein that the pleasant duet with Stevie Nicks on "Beautiful People Beautiful Problems" fits in.

Lust For Life is a project in motion that tries to open new horizons without losing its identity, and it's also Lana's most explicitly political album: the reflections of "Coachella – Woodstock In My Mind" and the non-militant feminism of "God Bless America, And All the Beautiful Women In It" confirm a very delicate social and civic sensibility, but it's in the already-mentioned "When The World Was At War We Kept Dancing" that the artist takes up arms and stirs consciences ("Is it the end of an era? Is it the end of America? No, it's only the beginning, if we keep hoping we'll have a happy ending, when the world was at war before, we kept dancing, and we'll do it again"). An album with which Lana Del Rey perfects the synergy between past and present. Another pleasing confirmation of an artist endowed with style and personality.

After criss-crossing America's sun-baked, deserted highways far and wide, for Lana Del Rey the time has come to embark on the most adventurous journey of her career. Having abandoned pickup trucks and luxury cars, the artist now sets sail aboard a yacht or sailboat, in the company of Jack Nicholson's son, turning Norman Rockwell's aesthetic inside out, fully embracing her own "romantic realism", singing its praises with the grace and awareness of someone who has finally reached full inner and artistic maturity, recounting the definitive collapse of the myth of the perfect family and of all those icons of the American democratic model, behind which social and political lies have always lurked. Yes, because Lana Del Rey is the antithesis of everything she has represented so far across her enchanting albums. The glamour of Born To Die has evolved into an anti-glamour; in place of the status of definitive female icon has come a normalized aesthetic. In just two years, Lana has gone from object of residual male chauvinism to prototype of self-aware femininity. And on Norman Fucking Rockwell! (2019), reality has systematically triumphed over representation. The unlikely simulated embrace on the cover, while everything burns in the distance, is yet another sign of the destabilization of the American dream. If this record were a film, it would be the perfect sequel to "Magnolia", and Lana Del Rey the worthy successor to Aimee Mann.

And yet, the grandeur of these fourteen tracks is such that no images are needed to set the imagination flying, if you'll pardon the pun. The evocative power of the music and lyrics is so intense it leaves you stunned. In a discography with no weak spots, Norman Fucking Rockwell! stakes its claim as a creative cornerstone, thanks to solid writing devoid of any rock-star pretension. At the same time, the writing manages to give even more voice to a generation that seems indolent and disillusioned, yet one that has nonetheless decided not to step aside. Never has the term sadcore felt so apt in capturing the harmonic and lyrical power of a new record. Stripped of needless frills — precisely the kind that, for instance, once kept Born To Die from fully conveying the emotional distress of the gorgeous "Video Games" — these songs flex their muscle even when the voice is set against nothing but the dark reverb of an acoustic guitar, as happens in the intro of "The Next Best American Record".

Her command of vocal qualities is also striking, and the layered instrumentation comes close to perfection. Lana Del Rey converses with piano and orchestra in the delightful melodramatic fresco of the title track, moves sinuously through the intricate harmonies of "Fuck It, I Love You", and exudes confidence and refined old-world romanticism on the spiritual folk-noise of "Mariners Apartment Complex", which anticipated the album's more west-coast, less stereotypical sound.

Every element is perfectly set in place on Norman Fucking Rockwell!; even the vintage, nostalgic touch takes on new, unusual contours, best represented in that cinematic masterpiece "Venice Bitch", a song that sounds as though it were written by Leonard Cohen or Joni Mitchell mid acid-trip, with an instrumental coda that represents the creative peak of the artist's career. It's the second of no fewer than six singles released ahead of the album. A string of songs that heightened an anticipation that grew ever more feverish. An anticipation, however, rewarded by fourteen gems that elevate the New York muse to the undisputed queen of global pop. Quality pop, to be clear. An exquisitely popular model free of forced polish and perfunctory trinkets. An instrumental and melodic architecture that, on "Venice Bitch", reaches heights in some ways never before attained in her career. Peaks that emerge after a caressing acoustic opening and words that go beyond the horizons of desire, carrying the listener into a limbo of purity and high-art eroticism, bewilderment and enchantment. Time takes on absolute thematic centrality, and the reach of her own nostalgia sets ablaze a soul that is ever more disillusioned, now mature and ready to face a new season of life. Love for her man is thus wrapped in a psychedelic coda that slips free of Del Rey's usual songbook. A magical embrace of bubbling synthetic sounds that unfurl with an unfamiliar poetry.

It's the miracle of a masterpiece record as eagerly awaited by fans as it was unexpected in terms of inspiration. Eight years after that motorcycle ride in what still remains one of pop's most-clicked semi-amateur videos, Lana takes on a new journey. This time, it's the back of a car speeding down unspecified roads of an equally unspecified era. Roads that race away and embody the swift, inexorable passage of time, while a carpet of sinuous melodies and held-back hisses floods the scene, before the opening refrain returns in full force with all its passion, as the words put the senses back where they'd been left, between the memory of a wound and that of a vanished America.

Not even the scraps of trap and hip-hop that occasionally peek through, in just a handful of scattered moments, manage to dent the album's mood. The radio-friendly versatility of "Doin' Time" — a cover of a Sublime song — is graced by an arrangement that's neither invasive nor excessive. Moreover, despite sharing Jack Antonoff's production with Taylor Swift, Del Rey seems more than ever disinclined to embrace more poppy sounds, staying true to her own statements about the project's psych-soft nature and melancholic/romantic mood.

The emotional and creative bond between Norman Fucking Rockwell! and Ultraviolence is evident. Once again, it's the blues and country leanings that underscored the mysterious, layered atmospheres of her most cohesive album, the aforementioned Ultraviolence, that take center stage — at least for now, since this latest effort increasingly seems poised to seize the crown. The difference from her past albums lies above all in the writing, and despite the considerable number of tracks, there's no dip in quality. Intimate and limpid is the romanticism that "Love Song" radiates, while the Lynchian "Cinnamon Girl" carries the same intense noir allure as "Video Games", and the piano-driven "Hope Is A Dangerous Thing For A Woman Like Me To Have – But I Have It" has all the hallmarks of a future classic. Here too, the miracle is twofold: Del Rey freezes time with singing that is as epically restrained as it is charged with emotion.

It's the definitive self-awareness of a girl who has finally become a woman, of a star who leaves the cradle of her own Olympus to strip bare and come face to face with the everyday, real dramas of a newfound femininity. Sylvia Plath remains Del Rey's primary point of reference, and the words leave little room for further interpretation (“I’ve been tearing around in my fucking nightgown/ 24/7 Sylvia Plath/ Writing in blood on my walls”). The disenchantment of an ever more pervasive maturity gives way to the pleasing ambiguity that creeps into the retro atmospheres of "How To Disappear". Meanwhile, tracks like "California", "Bartender" and "The Next Best American Record", though still anchored to a tried-and-tested formula, certainly don't give in to predictability or boredom. Other gems scattered across the record are destined for lasting glory, like the evocative "The Greatest", a delightful fresco with a 70s-style allure, loosely in the folk/soul vein of Carole King, and "Happiness Is A Butterfly", the ideal manifesto of the musical and lyrical maturity reached on this album, which calling magnificent sometimes feels damn reductive. Yet another unrepeatable miracle from a goddess born to sing.

Announced for early 2020, released digitally first in July and finally as an audiobook, Violet Bent Backwards Over The Grass is an ambitious, atypical work: 14 poems that Del Rey says were inspired by the style of Sylvia Plath, Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, their soundtrack entrusted to her faithful collaborator Jack Antonoff, skilled at offering an unobtrusive backdrop: a piano chord, a touch of electronics, guitar languor and a saxophone that set the pace for dark, anguished tones. Over these cryptic compositions, Lana alternates interesting musings on the role of the artist ("LA Who Am I To Love You") with naive nods to a well-assorted range of poetic styles: from Dylan Thomas to Jim Morrison.

The voice, sometimes in the foreground ("Never To Heaven"), sometimes wrapped in the haze of a few chords ("Salamander"), underscores conflicting states of mind, resorting to poetic evanescence ("The Land Of 1,000 Fires") or more talkative spoken-word passages ("Sportcruiser"), with no fear of disappointing expectations or slipping into grotesque or whimsical tones. There's even an unusual tenderness in certain moments of Violet Bent Backwards Over The Grass ("The Land Of 1,000 Fires", "Paradise Is Very Fragile"), because Lana doesn't shy away from any expressive mode, in order to make accessible an album of poems whose sonic backdrop isn't especially original. Reading between the lines, one picks up on references to the climate crisis ("Paradise Is Very Fragile") and to Native Americans, though the poems feel most intense when Lana Del Rey digs into intimacy and everyday sensuality ("What Happened When I Left You", "Happy").

Violet Bent Backwards Over The Grass is one of the rare slam-poetry albums you'll be able to listen to at least once without feeling irritated, even though it's not without a slight self-indulgence capable, on rare occasions, of inducing a sense of boredom ("My Bedroom Is A Sacred Place Now – There Are Children At The Foot Of My Bed"), but credit must go to Lana Del Rey for taking on this experiment in poetry and ambient music without losing her own nature. There's no showing off or intellectual arrogance here, just a woman grappling with herself.

Just a few months later came Chemtrails Over The Country Club. A record that continues to destabilize American intellectual chic and the male-dominated conception of folk music, moving more decisively into the songwriting world of Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez and Stevie Nicks. A choice that finds its consecration in the beautiful version of Joni Mitchell's "For Free" with Weyes Blood, who steals the scene with a performance so disorienting it makes you think you're hearing the song's original author. But it's not only in this unusual closer that the stylistic sanctity of 1970s Laurel Canyon Boulevard folk shines through. The residual power of the counterculture born in those places lies at the heart of the elegant folk, rock and blues citations of "Dance Till We Die" and the acoustic delights of "Yosemite".

In the more homogeneous flow of Chemtrails Over The Country Club there lurk some predictable repetitions of the artist's creative clichés, with results that aren't always fully satisfying, notwithstanding the ever-present grace (“Let Me Move You Like A Woman”), or introspective moments that don't quite survive the minimal treatment of the writing and arrangements (“Breaking Up Slowly”). The album indeed keeps a low profile. Clearly a deliberate choice, one that signals a velvety change of pace. Every track is a small but significant caress. But towering above them all is “White Dress”, introduced by piano and a sighed vocal. Five and a half minutes of whispered, restrained poetry. The singing is exquisitely withdrawn. Lana takes on the features of a desert siren. A metaphorical oxymoron that defines a track which seems bare on the surface but is in fact as deep as the sea. A song that unsettles and disorients with its understated blend of nostalgia, flowing across black and white tonalities. There's a new way of understanding that thing called noir here. A new aesthetic of the soul conveyed through the notes of an opener destined to go down in the history of her discography, and beyond.

Chemtrails Over The Country Club is at once a destination reached and an elegant turning point looking toward a future that still shines bright. A record in which simplicity plays a key role, and whose strengths are its wistfulness and introspection. Yet another bullseye in a career that is simply unique

Amid callbacks, cryptic social media posts and sudden about-faces that have left millions of fans around the globe disheartened, the announced new 2021 album, Blue Banisters, has finally arrived, following the alluring and equally divisive Chemtrails Over The Country Club. A prolific output that partly contradicts the never-quite-silenced accusations of an artistic career engineered on paper, musically inconsistent. Arguments that by now belong to gossip, especially among her earliest detractors. Lana Del Rey now seems to have taken on the same status that Elton John had in the '70s, with a prolific output that's lyrically always up to par.

Announced with an Instagram post on April 10th and then again on April 27th complete with title and an accompanying clip for the title track, as mentioned above, the record was the product of constant second-guessing, and in the end Mike Dean, touted as the lead producer, ended up responsible for just a single track. The first three singles, “Wildflower Wildfire”, “Text Book” and “Blue Banisters”, drew some decent reviews right away, though without causing much of a stir. As if that weren't enough, several songs were later pulled out of the drawer of old memories, while some of the tracks included in early tracklists disappeared altogether. These are “Fine China”, “I Can Fly”, “Rock Candy Sweet” and “Wild One”. Cuts that confirm Del Rey's typical fickleness.

But let's get to the rest. What grabs you from the very first notes is the clear anchoring, especially in the first part of the album, to the fabric of Norman Fucking Rockwell!, its pianism, its atmospheres. Blue Banisters, beyond the artist's indelible stamp, also offers plenty of food for thought and appreciation, as well as elements of “novelty”. The most obvious is that for the first time Lana Del Rey often forgoes her usual languid delivery for a more mature and versatile expressive agility. The singing is remarkably clean. Take the vocalizing on “Arcadia” and “Beautiful” as examples. There's even more: on “Dealer” her voice shifts depending on the occasion like never before.

These are songs of solid songcraft that blend seamlessly into one another, often giving the impression of unfolding within the same film. A soundtrack to an imaginary story, made of regrets, smiles, mischievous verses, erotic metaphors and romantic effusions. It only takes a moment for Lana Del Rey's tenth record to swerve toward ecstasy, offering on the other side of the record one of the finest songs in her whole discography: “Violets For Roses”. The opening is as epic as the crescendo of the refrain. It's an unforgettable ballad from the very first listen. An instant classic, to put it briefly. A little over four minutes at the piano, built to be handed down to posterity. Yet another miracle from a goddess with the gift of freezing time and softening it with just a few notes.

What follows is a strange shift in register ushered in by “Dealer”, a track originally conceived for the aborted collaborative project with Last Shadow Puppets, meant as a duet with Miles Kane, which, besides breaking up the record's hazy atmosphere with a sturdier rhythm section, benefits from an over-the-top performance by Lana, who proves herself here the perfect interpreter as well as writer. And it's no surprise that the following “Thunder” comes from the same sessions. A song written with Zach Dawes, with an even more infectious melody. It's the other small, great miracle of the bunch. With “Wildflower Wildfire”, Lana then restores her usual irresistible femme-fatale mood, flirting here and there with Kate Bush (!), before a delicate gospel-soul stamps the path of “Nectar Of The Gods”, in a bluesy surge that opens up new frontiers.

It's in this continuous shapeshifting that Blue Banisters takes on the shape of a truly great album. A record with two faces, a double soul. And only seemingly one-dimensional at first glance. What to say, finally, about the coda of “Living Legend”, with the voice mimicking a harmonica, sealing a big acoustic ballad straight out of another era? Or about the held-back tears in “Cherry Blossom”, or the ones wiped away in “Sweet Carolina”? Lana sings like a muse letting herself be swept up by her own destiny. She dreams of a simple life, a farm, a secluded world. The brief (and skippable) interlude paying tribute to Morricone is proof of that. With “Blue Banisters”, Lana has finally burned away every grudge. And her steady gaze on the cover, sitting on the little terrace with her two handsome German shepherds, confirms the mood of the moment.

After eight albums steeped in difficult, sinful love affairs, shady bars and clubs, drugs and a deceptive American way of life, in 2023 the time seems to have come for Lana to embrace “born to live”, with Hollywood-style romanticism remaining the one constant. Did You Know That There's A Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd (2023) lays out, from the title track onward, the moods of a mature woman contemplating the buoy before circling around it, asking herself, first and foremost, “when's it gonna be my turn?”. A question that perhaps also conceals her own desire to become a mother, resulting in an instant classic whose refrain carries an extraordinary melodic power. It is, in fact, a new “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, confirming, for the ninth time across these past very long thirteen years, the flair of an eternally vibrant talent. Lana sings of screwing to death, amid silver mirrors and painted wall tiles. Her labyrinth is a hidden Eden in which to keep hiding so as never to stop dreaming. At one point, Lana even name-drops Harry Nilsson and hopes to one day find a friend like him, someone able to give her a high-five, before leaning against her back and whispering in her ear: “Come on, baby, you can drive”.

After a song like that, and an equally remarkable opening track, “The Grant”, a gospel-tinged ballad dedicated to her loved ones, Did You Know That There's A Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd goes through a series of alternating slowdowns, like the pleasant but predictable “Candy Necklace”, sandwiched between two sermons that end up being excessive and dulling the impact of the tracks that follow: a “Kintsugi” that sounds like it came straight off Aerial by Kate Bush, and a wrenching “Fingertips”, which, with its sharp melodic streak and the anxieties the writer lays bare, stakes its claim as the most painful and poetic moment since “Video Games”.

In short, you soon find yourself on a pleasant rollercoaster ride. Because Did You Know That There's A Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd is certainly not Lana Del Rey's boldest album, but it is without doubt the one most full of promise for the future. It's also the one that makes it reasonable to hope Lana might part ways with good old Jack Antonoff for a while, whose girlfriend, Margaret Qualley, is in fact the dedicatee of “Margaret”, sung as a duet with Antonoff himself and his Bleachers. The repetitiveness of the melodies, that obvious point aside, is still appealing. The lightness of “Paris Texas” has the candor of an old music box, while the collaboration with Father John Misty on “Let The Light In” reveals an unprecedented, more distinctly country-flavored harmonic vulnerability. “Fishtail” then slides from soul into trap with its usual elegance, opening a final trio of tracks full of light and shadow.

There's also the playful verbal-musical game of “Peppers”, which remains without doubt the album's weak point: an awkward, clumsy hip-hop crossover. The same goes for the remake of “Venice Beach”, reshaped as “Taco Truck x VB”: digging back into one's own songbook always signals a certain weariness. This final stretch, then, comes across as a dead weight that Del Rey can barely shake off. But traces of the more passionate, poetically cursed Lana resurface in the gorgeous “A&W”, which musically shifts the delicacy of the opening trio toward a harsher electronic mood, bringing red-hot themes back to the center: “A&W” is in fact a well-known American fast-food chain, while at the same time packing a whole vision into the terms “America” and “Whore”. Yet another grand fork in the road of Lana Del Rey's poetic journey.

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