Born to Die - Lana Del Rey

Trash It

Jesus. I dunno ... It's safe to say I know what side of the fence I'm on concerning Lana Del Rey. I am going to acknowledge that perhaps I'm letting my personal experiences cloud my judgment. I might have on a subconscious level made up my mind after the Saturday Night Live performance, in which I foiled my cynicism's assassination attempt on my inner-child. I might have reveled in the fact that the hipsters' newly elected diva had secretly been a 1-pecenter-trust-fund baby planted among the ironic t-shirts. But I dunno. I don't want my review to come off as a vendetta against Lana. She's not my cup of tea — in fact, I would say she's not even my cup of boiling water. Even so, I really wanted to be fair. I even created another category to my ratings system (see above). But, after listening to this trite little album all the way through, I'm going to have to say f*ck it. This one joins the list of the worst records I have ever reviewed.

"Jim," you may be thinking, "I've always known you could be a spiteful asshole at times, but this takes it to a new level." I am well aware this all sounds pretty vindictive, but I think all you need is one listen of this finished product before you feel like your head is about to explode a la David Cronenberg's Scanners. If I'm a prick, I'm a prick; this deserves it.

Del Rey (the stage name of Lizzie Grant) markets herself as an old soul with modern-day attitude. The only thing timeless about her is her Marilyn Monroe-like baby talk that makes it rather difficult to make out what exactly she's trying to comment on. It turns out there is no need to search through the lyrics. Most of her motifs are about drinking and schmoozing with rich, older men. On the bright side, she's really literary with all her Nabokov references (yikes). Yep, nothing says Electra Complex like Del Rey's "Off to the Races" and "Million Dollar Man," both of which make you think there is something unnatural going on between her and her Internet-mogul father. Between her tonal mumblings, the listener is sure to find little to like in Del Rey's lease on life. As she says in "National Anthem": "Money is the reason we exist / Everybody knows it. It's a fact. Kiss kiss." No bones about it, this young lady is trying to win our hearts with a blunt superficiality that would make the Gossip Girls blush. Del Rey carries on throughout the record like a spoiled child boorishly dismissing conflict and chances to grow from it to land an affluent man and get obscenely drunk in the process.

That's not to say she doesn't have an introspective side. Del Rey tries her hand at exploring the realms outside of bored-rich-girl-with-time-on-her-hands land in a few instances. When she tries to convey the emotion of a torch song, as on "Video Games," what comes across is narcolepsy. In the song, she analyzes a relationship between her and some dude who would rather play Xbox than play with her ... you know ... Although the analogy to stunted emotional growth and video games doesn't roll off the tongue, it's speaks volumes about her own strength and self-respect by leaving someone who is too immature to respect her. Unfortunately, this message is negated by Del Rey's low growls and a droning score that puts most to sleep.

The only lukewarm song in the bunch is "Radio." Del Rey finally sings in her limited euphonious range about her chase for fame and the American Dream. Although the triumph over her adversities might not have been particularly difficult given the circumstances, the listener can forget that for a minute because there's finally some catharsis after all the vain trifles that plague the work.

There has been a lot of praise for the production team headed by Emile Haynie as a bright spot on the album. In my opinion, not even the romanticized melodies can save Del Rey from herself as she trolls out her strident squawks.

Yes, I would go so far to say American culture is quite bankrupt indeed when an artist like this is celebrated for listing all of her favorite kinds of alcohol and chasers in a tone-deaf manner (She can't sing. I mean is anybody not seeing this, I FEEL LIKE I'M TAKING CRAZY PILLS). However, some reviewers who chronicled her rise to greatness are doing their best to save their crowned princess by praising her as a living performance piece — an timid actress playing the role of a bona fide bad girl. The problem with this logic is even if Lizzie Grant is a great impersonator, the character is so abhorrent you can't help but hate her.

For Your Consideration: Nope

For Next Time: No Idea