'Ultraviolence' is no black-and-white affair - Lancaster Newspapers

TEEN MUSIC REVIEW

In case you are in disbelief, yes, I am a Lana Del Rey fan, so much so that I claimed this review in February.

For some reason, this is hard for some people to believe, but when one considers the dismal cynicism of the music, it makes sense. Nonetheless, this is one of the few times I will write an article appealing to the intended audience as opposed to that of their grandparents.

Del Rey is not a mainstream pop star, though her debut album (actually her second) did sell 7 million copies. Miley Cyrus is a mainstream pop star. Maroon 5 is a mainstream pop band. Lana Del Rey is far from mainstream, in spite of mainstream popularity.

Much of Del Rey’s “Born to Die” and “Paradise” fits the pop music aesthetic, but such is not the case in her latest album, “Ultraviolence.” Del Rey and producer Dan Auerbach have eschewed the glossier elements of those entries in Del Rey’s oeuvre and replaced them with a sedate blues rock.

Even with its pop-anthemic tendencies, Del Rey’s early work speaks not simply to a sort of synthesized product designed by record companies to cater to some faceless listener, but rather to a sly attack on the ignorance of that demographic. So, too, does her work here in “Ultraviolence.” Del Rey knows that somehow ours has become the “hipster generation,” a fundamentally illogical contradiction.

As in “Born to Die,” she weaves an ironic patchwork composed of nostalgic tropes. In the title track, she quotes The Crystals’ “He Hit Me (It Felt Like a Kiss).” Needless to say, that was far from a feminist anthem, and quoting it will doubtless only fuel beliefs that Del Rey is misogynistic. She is not. She simply recognizes that, since the golden age never was the present one, we appeal to the past, wearing Buddy Holly glasses and quoting 1960s songs, forgetting there never was a golden age in the first place. Even in the old days, wives were abused.

“Shades of Cool” is a brilliant showcase for Lana’s smoky, bluesy timbre, as well some experimentation, most notably a perfect sampling of the James Bond theme song. Though the guitar solo seems superfluous, this track is excellent, and shows off Del Rey’s tremendously underrated singing voice, which is delightfully imperfect in an age of Auto-Tuned homogeneity.

“West Coast,” the album’s first single, is a titillating piece of work, another ode to classic Americana. This is codeine-infused surf rock, its romanticization of west-coast hedonism draped in darkness, a sunny California afternoon tinged with the faint whispers of despair.

Unfortunately, few other tracks on the album reach the fantastic heights of the previously released singles. Songs like “Cruel World,” the opening track, which overstays its welcome at 6 minutes and 39 seconds, are not particularly memorable, though my mind is changing after listening to it enough.

Del Rey overcomes the lesser entries with great songs like “Pretty When You Cry.” I would guess she has not actually suffered, but she sings as though she has lamented in anguish for a million lifetimes. It is exquisitely somber, dark and raspy, pure and emotive. So, too, is “Old Money,” a melancholic track dripping with bittersweet reminiscence of long-lost love.

The most revealing track is “Brooklyn Baby,” perhaps my favorite (along with “Black Beauty” and its haunting ruminations on love and depression). Del Rey satirizes millennialism and the “hipster generation” that loves her, but fails to understand her. This is a warped new wave, punk in its thematics, psychedelic in its woozy reverberations.

Del Rey’s music may be popular, but it is not popular music. She does not provide a popular message or fit a popular mold, but rather, with the help of the minor key, mocks a demographic so ignorant it buys 7 million records without understanding the message.

Once the album reaches its conclusion, a cover of Nina Simone’s “The Other Woman,” the real Del Rey, a.k.a. Elizabeth Grant, reminds us that hers is merely a character. The other woman singing these songs is a creation, put forth to question contemporary norms and to lambaste a generation of conformists of which the members are unable to think for themselves.

I am loath to give so much credit to celebrities. I fear that I make Del Rey sound substantially smarter than she may be, but she is indeed a contradictory figure, and it could hardly be more appropriate that this album contain myriad contradictions.

Perhaps the most noticeable contradiction is on the very front cover, a black-and-white photo of Del Rey. The cover art simplifies the world to a monochromatic simplicity, a superficial dichotomy, but the album itself is a paradox. This is a satire hidden in a defense, of a generation of conformist nonconformists, by a woman who is not the woman she claims to be.

Ultimately, “Ultraviolence” does not disappoint. It is repetitive in its lyrics, and at times you cannot help but feel suffocated by the perpetual drowsiness of it. Nonetheless, the slow burn of the album becomes irresistible. The gauzy reverberations of guitars and the wistful echoes of Del Rey’s unpolished voice are undeniably entrancing, enough to make most listeners forget that the joke is on them, and that this is far from a black-and-white affair.