may 2023

Lana Del Rey

Did you know that there's a tunnel under Ocean Blvd

(Interscope / Polydor)

Let’s get it out of the way. I have a crush on Lana Del Rey.

Maybe it’s because of our brief encounter in 2014 — me, a Z100 board operator, emerging from the on-air studio; Lana, riding the success of the previous summer’s mega-smash, ‘Summertime Sadness,’ exiting the radio station after a meeting with our program director.

I never needed an excuse to abandon my post running the Ryan Seacrest show — and I’m not sure I’d chosen that moment to step out just because Lana was passing thru.  But it happened. Our worlds collided.

My only exposure to LDR, pre-collision - besides the maddeningly overplayed dance mix of ‘Summertime’ - was her debut on Saturday Night Live.  Lana was blasted by the critics for that performance, but what I remember most about it was how different it felt. This was original, authentic. Bold. Especially considering all the 'safe’ pablum that turned up on the Studio 8H stage, not to mention the same radio hallways I roamed.

And now here I was in that hallway, face-to-face with that attractive girl from the TV. No lace dress, no vamping. Just Lana in a hip leather jacket, her fingernails phenomenal. Me in my dumb ‘I didn’t shave my head today’ skull cap and my Banana Republic sweater. Lana says hi. I say hi. I say congratulations on your success, nice nails. I share that I prefer the album version of her single. Lana smiles. Her label rep asks if I wanna take a picture. Ummmm sure.

Lana leans in. Lana puts her arm around me. Lana smiles at me under the Z100 sign outside the studio. I smile my shit-eating ‘Lana Del Rey is smiling at me’ grin. The crush is born.

It was a cool moment. But I admittedly didn’t go running towards Lana Del Rey’s catalog the same night, probably not even the same year. In fact, I didn’t start crushing on Lana’s music until 2017’s Lust for Life, when I had finally committed to something not enough music fans — and music critics — do: I spent significant time with the album, I listened with intent. Then I tunneled deeper down the rabbit hole.

I was still working at Z100 back then, and not surprisingly, the station didn’t play any of Lana’s music besides that ‘Summertime Sadness’ remix. Which of course was why Lana’s music continued to appeal to me. Radio didn’t like it, didn’t know what to do with it. It must have been dumbfounding to programmers — the industry machine unable to crown Lana their queen and thus equally unable to claim credit for her success.

That’s because Lana Del Rey has never had much interest in writing pop hits. The crush grows.

That trend continues on Del Rey’s ninth studio release, in which the self-proclaimed ‘album artist’ unveils 16 new tracks and nearly 80 minutes of music, a good number of the songs eclipsing the 5 minute mark. There is no filler here, however.

Did you know that there's a tunnel under Ocean Blvd unfurls like a greatest hits compilation — the gospel vibes of opener ‘The Grants’ into quintessential Torch Song Lana on the title track into the pastoral and so-sad-it’s-pretty piano of ‘Sweet.’ From here, the album sprawls into an epic stretch. ‘A&W’ is an apex, shades of Radiohead up top, shades of trap-beaten Nine Inch Nails in the back half, all while Lana croons about being an “American whore,” simultaneously deconstructing myths and creating new ones.

Lana cites ‘Don’t Forget Me’ by Harry Nilsson - one of my all-time faves - as an inspiration for the title track. She sings like Tori Amos and Cat Power, sometimes even like Peter Gabriel. The crush grows.

Throughout the album, she makes unconventional choices, the title notwithstanding. A sizable chunk of a sermon by controversial pastor Judah Smith follows ‘A&W’. The motivation for this is unclear, but causes mild uproar anyway. The intent to titillate is subtle yet ever-present. There are barely any couplets or hooks, but things never get dull. ‘Candy Necklace’, ‘Kintsugi’ and ‘Fingertips’ are opuses that engulf another “interlude” (this one by Jon Batiste), a sequence of songs that gives this stretch of the album a modern-day Pink Floyd feel. The piano remains the musical centerpiece, performed beautifully throughout, especially on the waltz-y ‘Paris, Texas.’

It’s all typically provocative, poignant, and unapologetic. Lana once again surrounds herself with solid collaborators. Father John Misty makes a welcome cameo, Jack Antonoff co-signs a song about his actress fiancee. Strings soar, organs hum. The singer embraces vibe, and lyrically, gets to the heart of the matter: aging and healing, family and loving, God and taco trucks. Self-doubt and self-confidence, decadence and despair co-mingle to near-perfection.

I think about the Lana Del Rey who I met in 2014 amassing all the wisdom, heartbreak, accolades and anxiety of the past decade, taking it into her 30s. I think about the art that she’s made, a beautiful weapon against those early critics who just didn’t (and still might not) get her. I think about Lana Del Rey doing things her way — pure, uncompromising. That’s the dream. Art for art’s sake, its undeniable brilliance a punch in the nose to the pasteurized.

I think about Lana Del Rey and the crush grows.