Song of the day – 521: Lana Del Rey
This is long overdue.
Any artist I hate and love and haven’t made my mind up about in equal proportions has got to be worth further investigation. Especially when she can follow a song from her album as crass as this:
(Please tell me that I didn’t hear those opening lyrics. Please tell me that.)
With a cover version as obvious yet sublime as this:
You cannot overplay a song like ‘Blue Velvet’. It is not possible. And the fact this video is posted up as an advert for H&M’s fashion collection for autumn 2012 only adds to the awful poignancy of her voice.
I like the fact every song sounds like every other song and every song sounds like it ought to be the last song and every song was based on the original song which was based on a song not even hers.
Many of us can relate to her desperation, to her insatiable desire to fit in and be appreciated on everyone else’s terms (not her own), a desperation that becomes ever more palpable the more successful she becomes. Will we still lover her tomorrow? None of us really care, and she knows that.
Here’s the final song from the new version of the same album, ‘The Paradise Edition’. I expect it’s already been used as an advert for Jaguar F-Type or something which – of course – is desperately sad in itself, that she has such low self-regard. The album is great to work to because it doesn’t do anything except hang there in the air, a useless promise of a life that none of us want to attain really. There are only so many lengths you can do across a swimming pool before you start wondering what the ocean is like and whether it might be fun to have someone to share stuff with. At least Barry Manilow had a big nose when it came to writing advertising jingles. Or an abnormally small head.
I feel like I’m in heaven whenever I listen to Barry… I mean Lana Del Rey. And I don’t welcome such jaded stasis. Not usually. When I got sent a download of ‘The Paradise Edition’ recently, it felt like spam. I felt infinitesimally cheapened, sleazoid, for even looking at the email.
Of course she’s a teen girl dream. She’s this generation’s Sylvia Plath. Every picture of her is exactly the same.