I Think I Like Lana del Ray
Let’s not confuse the incessant hooks in Lana del Ray’s songs with traditional talent. Her voice is unusual, but not necessarily pretty. It doesn’t accomplish any great feats, rather, she more steers her songs with vocal tricks and maneuvers. The production of her widely-hyped “Born to Die” is slick. Her lyrics are terrible.
”Now my life is sweet like cinnamon/Like a fucking dream I’m living in,” is the syrupy chorus that anchors ”Radio,” a song she seems to be singing to everyone who saw her Saturday Night Live performance. Newsflash: Cinnamon isn’t sweet, Lana. Neither is the potty mouth.
Lana seems to trade in dualities; she’s touting her success with a metaphor about spices, then following it up with an f-bomb. All this in a synthetic, cuter-than-Hello-Kitty whisper that could rival the nasal-effects of Britney Spears. Yet, her next verse, “I finally found you,” is delivered in the flat, yawning style popularized by Judy Garland. Intriguing, but—which is she?
I can see Lana del Ray being remixed and played at clubs—the beats are solid and her sometimes-breathy, little-girl voice is pure sex—but other times it sounds like she’s going for this tragic, lovelorn, my-man-doesn’t-love-me-but-that’s-okay because-we-are-going-to-do-drugs-and-have-sex, Amy Whinehouse thing. The fact that her lyricism is lazy makes this last attempt seem cheap.
And yet, the songs are still good. They’re annoying—nay—she’s annoying—but they’re catchy at the same time. The melodies are fresh. Her vocal modulations keep it interesting. The instrumentals tend to rush in at just the right moment; the total effect is rich. The number of radio-worthy songs on the record far outlists the duds.
I’m not sure this record will help make Lana del Rey entirely likeable. But, like Britney Spears and others of her ilk, I bet we’ll still respect her music. Unless it’s live.
