Album Review: Lana Del Rey - Norman Fucking Rockwell!
While Lana Del Rey has always been an artist that purposely straddled the lines between the known and unknown, for too long her illustrious repute seemed to be more inscrutable than she knew how to manage. She was one of the earliest pop artists to find fame in a decade which would soon progress towards a total revaluation of the genre's sound; her 2012 album Born to Die awkwardly fused earworm hooks with her dour, monotone voice to create something that would go on to heavily influence the trend towards alternative sounds in the mainstream. Her success with such an unfamiliar style baffled many critics, and her rapid rise to fame off of such a foreign sound inspired a grossly undue amount of criticism, too much of which was directed at the blameless singer herself as opposed to her music (while genres can seem to change overnight, institutional sexism is far more hesitant to give up the ghost).
Lana has spent the seven years since that record trying (and largely failing) to live up to the sound of an album that, to be fair, was quickly overshadowed by its reputation and the legions of imitators it spawned. Fortunately, Norman Fucking Rockwell! is in many ways the culmination of all her talent and effort, and the first time she has truly been able to live up to her legendary renown. The first of her projects to effectively capture the mythical quality bestowed upon Lana by her fans, the hour-long epic is at once a parody of, and an homage to, all the musical and lyrical quirks she has become known for, and a powerful rebuke to all those who doubted she had the potential for greatness.
Much of the praise for the stark increase in quality on the record likely lies with producer Jack Antonoff, even if Lana's vocal and lyrical talents often seem to steal the show. The Bleachers frontman (hopefully now just as famous for his production work as for his solo project) certainly has a unique flair that subtly enshrouds the whole album, but in all honesty the real innovation is in getting Lana to stop singing over the generic pop production that marred her previous records. Her melancholic drawl fits much better over the sparse, piano-heavy ballads this album is saturated with, often bereft of additional instrumentation save for the occasional string melody. Even on tracks like How to disappear where Lana deigns to use percussion, the dry hi-hats and whimsical strings seem to be cognizant of how sorely they stand out; this is easily Lana's most self-aware record to date, a fact which makes it much easier to stomach more than an hour of slow, demanding art pop.
This more meta approach to writing cannot help but infect Lana's lyrics; from start to finish, the record is both a continuation of and a commentary on her musical history and media portrayal. As someone who took pains to incorporate the themes and iconography of vintage Americana into her style since the very beginning, Lana's lyrical talents have often been the highlight of her music, yet here her writing is far more impressive than anything to come before it. The softer, more nuanced instrumentation helps her poetics stand out all the more, even if Norman Fucking Rockwell! is, ironically, her most direct and candid release yet; she opens the record by intoning "God damn man-child/You fucked me so good that I almost said 'I love you'". The second track, Mariners Apartment Complex, elaborates on her relationship with her lover, bouncing between perspectives as she addresses both her own mistakes and her partner's fears: "They mistook my kindness for weakness/I fucked up, I know that, but Jesus/Can't a girl just do the best she can?". The piano line is perhaps the most beautiful of the whole record, and Lana's spoken-word pre-chorus ("And who I've been is with you on these beaches/Your Venice bitch, your die-hard, your weakness") is delightfully disarming.
The cut most divergent from this formula is also the album's oddest: a cover of Doin' Time by Sublime that somehow made its way onto the tracklist, though Lana deserves credit for faithfully replicating the beachfront vibe of the original. The 'summertime in California' imagery fits well with Lana's established canon while also providing a calculated break from the monotony, especially given its strategic placing quite soon after the album's nine-minute cornerstone, Venice Bitch. Here, Lana's sardonic description of her relationship ("It's me, your little Venice bitch") masks a deeper sorrow that pervades throughout the album ("And as the summer fades away/Nothing gold can stay"), but her words eventually give away to an extended instrumental passage dominated by synth warbling. It should come off as tedious or overindulgent, yet miraculously never does; the guitar solo washes over one's ears like the tides at Lana's beloved beaches, perpetually hypnotic and always evolving until Lana finally deigns to reenter: "Back, back in the garden/We're getting high now because we're older/Me myself, I like diamonds/My baby, crimson and clover".
It is somewhat astounding that this album doesn't feel like the hour-long slog it probably should resemble at points; even at its lowest, Lana's crooning never seems to become tedious, and the production backing her lilt is nearly always impeccable. That said, certain tracks could likely have been cut: Love song may work in a vacuum as a tender ode to Lana's partner, but jammed in the middle of too many similarly slow ballads, its blunt sincerity serves only to spotlight its weak lyrics. The strummed guitar on Fuck it I love you starts out strong, but the way Lana slurs her words during the chorus is jarring, and her wavering vocals are equally off-putting. The saving grace of her occasional fumbles is the record's disturbingly uniform sound; despite the occasional distraction, Lana's gloomy drone will always pull the listener back into its desolate stupor. (That might sound negative, but if people listen to Lana for anything, it's to indulge in angst and melodrama with an artist who can channel such feelings like no one else).
All of Lana Del Rey's many, many fans were no doubt instantly enamored with Norman Fucking Rockwell!, in the manner that can only arise when an artist one is already singularly devoted to produces what is far and away the best work of their career. But even those unfamiliar or unimpressed by Lana's discography will likely enjoy her latest record, as what it lacks in variety it makes up for in a meticulous commitment to bringing out her best qualities, both as a singer and as a writer. Rarely does it ever drag, despite its unwavering commitment to a slow, melancholic approach, and Lana's lyrical abilities more than make up for the instances where it fails to fully enamor the listener. Even if it took longer than anticipated, Lana Del Rey has finally proven worthy of the colossal reputation she stumbled into, seemingly by accident, all those years ago.
8.5/10
Favourite Tracks: Mariners Apartment Complex, Venice Bitch, The greatest