Lana Del Rey, the queen of luscious baroque pop, is undoubtedly an amazing singer. Her 2012 album, Born to Die, has been dubbed as a “fairy-dusting of harp and an ominous timpani, laid out over-top a hip hop vocal cadence” by Times, “glossy trip-hop” by BBC music and (best of all) “Hollywood Sadcore” by the Lolita Grant herself. She has successfully replaced my need for the raunchy americana of The Andrew Sisters and the trashy OD-infused glamour of Amy Winehouse, with this single album.
To many critics who recognize talent when they see it, Lana Del Rey is not just another pop sensation. The abundance of theatricality in her music, infused with her mellow, femme fatale voice and played out alongside the 1950s Desert Americana of “Off to the Races” create something so utterly unique that it defies categorization. Sure, we can term it indie; we brush it aside as pop: but the sound of her album, despite containing both elements, is much grander than that – what she has created, alongside with her producer, her song-writers, her art directors, is art music that penetrates deeper into pop culture than any of the post-modernists living on art theory can ever dream of. She has created instant noir: sweet, deep and dark.
Marginally Philosophical 