Lana Del Fucking Rey is back
with a new fucking album.
Love it or hate it, Lana Del Rey’s
sound is undeniably unique. She’s spent the last decade playing the dead-eyed
female victim from a noir movie, using depressing ballads to detail abusive
relationships with jerks in which she yo-yos between heartbreak and Stockholm
syndrome. You can guarantee there will be sad pianos, sad strings and generous
servings of reverb. There’s also a high likelihood that the f-bomb count will
be higher than a Scorcese movie (because Lana Del Rey wants you to know she’s
really fucking tired of it all).
That said, she’s not entirely
predictable. Every album has seen a clear progression, from all-out sadgirl on Ultraviolence
to smoky-voiced Bond girl on Honeymoon to modern tragic on Lust For
Life. Personally, I couldn’t stand her monotone bleating on Ultraviolence.
But in the albums since then she’s become more dynamic and exciting. Her last album in particular saw her experimenting with her voice, trying new styles of
production, getting socio-political and even embracing a sense of optimism.
Normal Fucking Rockwell! sets
itself up to be an even more dynamic and exciting album. In fact, after hearing
the first few tracks, I thought this may even be album of the year material. The
spritelier tone of the pianos and the amusing lyrics in the opening title track
reminded me of Fiona Apple. ‘Venice Bitch’ meanwhile was an exciting detour in
psychedelic rock (even if it doesn’t quite know when to end) and cover ‘Doin
Time’ is an upbeat summer jam that’s a complete turnaround from the artist that
gave us ‘Summertime Sadness’.
It’s a shame that things take a nose-dive
in the second half. The production gradually becomes barer – consisting of dime-a-dozen
piano chords and the occasional synth swell. ‘Love Song’ is convincingly
heartfelt and intimate because of this. However, the later tracks lack this
conviction and end up sounding like dreary leftovers from Ultraviolence.
This dreariness peaks at ‘California’, which not only sports the most cliched
title of all time, but also contains numerous cliched lines about coming back
to America and lying in my arms (probably a deliberate attempt to invoke some Americana
nostalgia, but it does nothing for me).
Lana’s varied vocal tone is probably
the only element of this album that remains consistently exciting throughout, preventing some
of the latter tracks from being total anaesthesia. At times, she lets her
vocals soar and other times she reels them back to a spoken-word whisper. I
also love the creative inflections in the choruses, such as the stutter of ‘bart-t-tender’
and Bowie-like breathy delivery ‘I’m your man’. The monotone bleating of her
early days is kept to a minimum.
Part of me wants to love this
album because the first half is so strong and Lana’s vocals have come on in
leaps and bounds. However, the second half seems to be a return to Lana’s
one-dimensional Ultraviolence days and it's a complete slog. If Norman Fucking Rockwell! was a football game, the first half would have ten goals scored in it and the second half would be nothing but three players kicking the ball to each other in a triangle. If it was a book, one half would be suspenseful action scene after action scene, and the second half would be the protagonist organising his sock drawer. If it was a pizza, one half would be packed with all the toppings and the other half would be plain dough. You get the picture.
★★★☆☆