Del Rey (a.k.a. Elizabeth Woolridge Grant) looks, sings, and carries herself like she's from another time and place -- probably the 1960s or '70s, probably somewhere in Southern California. She's not afraid to sulk, swear, and be sexy, and her beautifully orchestrated anachronisms make the postmodern contrasts of her music that much more powerful.
One could look at Del Rey's albums as phases of a relationship, either with another person or with her music itself. 2012's "Born To Die," along with its follow-up EP "Paradise" from later that same year, are the wild, unpredictable period of discovery when you fervently hope that you're not facing a one-trick pony. 2014's "Ultraviolence" is the more serious, deliberate acquainting that gradually occurs as you realize that this is, in fact, the real deal.
"Honeymoon," released in September, could signify one of two interpretations. The honeymoon phase could be happening, and you're basking in the glow of contentment, or the honeymoon could be over and you're facing a lifetime with these qualities, for better or for worse. Not inclined to settle for one answer, Del Rey offers music that could go either way, often within the same song. One thing's for sure, though: you had better be committed to listening or you'll miss out on an unparalleled journey.
As soon as the cover art, before the first notes of the album are even played, Del Rey evokes that far-off place and time -- an oasis amid the turbulence of today's music industry. The opening (and title) track utilizes effects that sound so genuinely retro (vocal layering, swooning melodies) that it could very well break the space-time continuum. Much of the album mirrors the wondrous, introspective heights of Kate Bush: a comparison that I don't make freely or easily, so it serves as one of my highest possible compliments to Del Rey's level of artistry. On "Honeymoon," she accomplishes more vocally and lyrically than musically. If you're looking for the Lana who has given us the eclectic caliber of past songs like the kinetic flow of "Off To The Races" and the lo-fi cadence of "West Coast," you may be reluctant to embrace another side of her. Still, the album remains thought-provoking and appropriately moody.
"Terrence Loves You" is an unusual choice for a radio single, but it soars as a contemplative ballad ideally suited for this autumnal season of change. The chill in the air is doubled by the chill of her isolation. Meanwhile, the more pop-friendly single "High By The Beach" is equal parts class and sass. The track is the perfect kiss-off; honestly, who among us has never wanted to tell someone, "You could be a bad motherfucker, but that don't make you a man"? Del Rey nails the explicit sentiment without ever feeling gimmicky -- or worse, appealing to the lowest-common denominator.
"Honeymoon" does briefly threaten to float away during some of its languid middle tracks; it's almost as if Del Rey has deliberately constructed music that forces you to listen beyond its surface and rewards you for absorbing the spot-on lyrics. Thankfully, the album finishes strong with tracks like "Salvatore," simmering and sizzling with an international flair that expands her already diverse musical palate, and "The Blackest Day," quintessential Del Rey that flirts with variable notions of yearning without succumbing to desperation.
Del Rey closes the album with a cover of Nina Simone's classic "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood," which is pretty gutsy for anyone to attempt given its legendary status and Simone's incomparable spirit. Del Rey is smart to not try imitating Simone's style, instead choosing to find and interpret new feeling and meaning in the ache of the lyrics. The true sign of a good cover is its ability to respect the original while still bringing something new to the table, and Del Rey succeeds in spades.
For someone of her age (only 30 years old) and with relatively short career experience, Del Rey is in full possession of the distinctive, soulful longing of her voice -- even taking further ownership of her craft by writing or co-writing all of her material. She achieves what few artists today understand: how to fully embody the process from start to finish. Some of that may be artifice for the sake of staying on-brand; after all, her interviews and her concert interactions with fans show a different kind of sweetness and incredulity at all the fame and attention. Even her soundtrack songs from "The Great Gatsby," "Maleficent," and "Big Eyes," which in the hands of other artists could have been empty contributions, positively embolden those films. She knows how to find the truthful core of every song, even if it's not necessarily one of her own. If nothing else, it's proof that she's a genuine musical storyteller who can embrace these personas and their experiences, however autobiographical they may or may not be.
These images, of course, stir themselves into that timeless yet important pop-music debate, especially in the current generation of Taylor-baiting and Miley-twerking. Is Del Rey actually reveling in dated female stereotypes, or is she making her music sound like a bygone era before putting her own ironic spin on the lyrics? Feminist critics have been quick to point out that her lyrics suggest too much dependence on men for affection and validation, even bordering on obsessive and/or possessive traits. However, sometimes the strongest thing that a woman (or any person in general) can do is be honest about their feelings. They're not always the feelings that we should or shouldn't have, and it's an act of bravery to set such deep thoughts to music. It's not a woman thing -- it's a human thing -- and Del Rey transcends mere gender politics to speak to each of us on a very primal, personal level.
To borrow a title from one of her new songs, "God Knows I Tried" is a fitting example of just how self-aware Del Rey can be about her life, her art, and her messages about both. She can rest assured that both God and listeners are taking notice, especially since she's probably one of the only contenders from the current crop of young artists to have a legitimate shot at an illustrious career. At the rate she's going, it won't be a question for much longer.
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