A VIDEO GAME

Lana Del Rey’s commercial debut, Born To Die*, was released in January 2012 and proceeded to sell over seven million copies worldwide. Blending elements of pop, indie and trip-hop with lush orchestral arrangements, her dreamy, melancholic vocals and cinematic production created a haunting atmosphere that set her apart from contemporary female artists.

So strongly did Del Rey’s music resonate with the listening public that she became a pop—and indeed, a pop culture—phenomenon. Her style, drawn from Fifties iconography inspired by sultry film star Lana Turner, was well crafted and carefully presented. That which delighted fans, however, was questioned by critics who were at odds with the record-buying public on aspects of Del Rey’s persona. The image was criticised for being artificial, her lyrics judged inauthentic. But that misses the point, really. Isn’t pop music by definition artificial? And cinema more so. As the strings play over the closing credits of Born To Die’s final song, "Lucky Ones", the film connection is overt, and successful. We have just heard fifty minutes of downbeat orchestral dream pop, creating scenes and telling stories.

But let’s begin at the beginning.

Although Born To Die was massively successful the artist was no overnight hit. The singer born Elizabeth Woolridge Grant had been making music since her mid-teens, moving to New York City as an eighteen year old to play in clubs and small venues. The Lana Del Rey persona followed several other assumed names, including Lizzy Grant, May Jailer, and the vowel swapping Lana Del Ray. In fact, a low budget clip for the song "Video Games", uploaded to YouTube in 2011, was the debut of the latest persona. Del Rey herself expressed some bemusement at the way it became a viral success, charting in numerous countries.

Connecting the immersive experience of computer games with a desire for an all-consuming romantic love gave "Video Games" a fragile sadness as well as making it a target for criticism. In the hit, as throughout the album, Del Rey presents images of tainted love and female submission ("Blue Jeans"); her characters are more than willing to acquiesce to the desires of their 'men', dressing and behaving as required ("National Anthem"); an attempt to secure a love that is timeless, enduring.

The sadness, perhaps even despair, permeating Del Rey’s languid vocals rescues the songs from maudlin romantic regret. There is a detachment here, accentuated by the trip-hop beats, that speaks more of story-telling than lived emotional anguish. This is not a singer whose life and career are spiralling out of control in a haze of alcohol and drugs, despite some of the imagery and the downbeat presentation. Lana Del Rey is no Amy Winehouse, trapped in a brief, lurid life of rampant self-destruction. In fact the death of the British chanteuse, six months before Born To Die was released, seems more than co-incidence. The contrast between baring your tormented soul and offering detached cinematic vignettes is stark. Winehouse was confessional, Del Rey is a storyteller. Seeing the latter’s growth as an artist—clearly demonstrated in her catalogue of, to date, seven subsequent albums— it is clear that Lana Del Rey is captain of her own ship, directing her career with skill and assurance. The journey begins here, with Born To Die.

* Not precisely true. The 'self-titled’ album Lana Del Ray (note spelling) was released in 2010 but withdrawn.

© Bruce Jenkins—July 2023