Spectreview: Lana Del Rey – Norman Fucking Rockwell!

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“I’m the board, the lightning, the thunder
Kind of girl who’s gonna make you wonder
Who you are and who you’ve been”

Given that the decade is coming rapidly to a close, there doesn’t seem to be a movement more defining of contemporary music criticism than the rise of poptimism. The notion that pop music is as critically viable as any other musical artwork is eternally arguable (as is the actual definition of pop music), but few can deny its come with its own set of positives and negatives. On the one hand, it’s absolutely possible to write music meant for today’s commercial market that holds up to a critical litmus test; this is especially true when it comes to the parallel chart domination of both hip-hop and R&B, genres that found considerable artistic evolutions in the 2010s. But allowing industry-inclined music critical viability also allows the industry to interrupt the flow of art’s discourse, which is ideally an unperturbed dialogue between artist and audience, centered around intention and execution. The music industry does not care about this discourse, and music made within the confines of the industry, by extension, is not asking to be critiqued. Over the last few years, a discussion has emerged about where the line must be drawn, about how much of an artist’s professions about their own work is worth critical consideration or is part of yet another marketing ploy for the interest of sales. This becomes the plight of the pop artist, and of the pop critic; when an industry leader attempts to make capital-A art, the stakes are that much higher.

Elizabeth Grant, who sells a great deal of records under Lana Del Rey, expressed clear ambition behind her newest album, Norman Fucking Rockwell! The eponymous painter is summoned as a marker of America’s conspicuous downfall, and indeed there’s nothing more enticing than a popular artist taking the time to make an album-length commentary on where we as a country are headed. Unfortunately the statement’s a little bit of a red herring; if you’re waiting to see what Grant has to say about the looming threat of authoritarianism or rising temperatures, no such commentary really exists on the album, at least where it relates to an actual novel opinion. Instead, Grant is largely back to relaying her personal struggles, from her past as an alcoholic (“Bartender”) to douchebag lovers (“Cinnamon Girl”), with some very small asides to a general sense of impending catastrophe. The record’s greatest triumph, one that shouldn’t be discarded, is its ability to create a deeply vivid environment, one that’s self-referential and entirely consistent in mood. Some of her best songs also lie within this collection, from the breathtaking spotlight moment of “The Greatest” to the beautifully understated “Mariners Apartment Complex,” to the record’s poignantly showstopping closer, “hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have – but I have it,” the one moment where Rey finally answers the call of ambition and breaks the ground under the listener. Jack Antonoff’s production is also gorgeous, and despite the sameness, his touch gives a vital softness to the record’s edges, crucially recalling California’s picturesque sunsets. Overall, those that are okay with the compositional staidness that comes with an album made up entirely of ballads will find a lot to appreciate here, and in many way it’s the best version of Lana Del Rey we’ve seen yet.

But if Norman Fucking Rockwell! is ideal Rey, it’s a shame that most of its ideas fall apart under the lens of scrutiny. While it may be lacking in actual cultural exegesis, what this record does have is references. Name drops, from Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy to Crosby, Stills and Nash to Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” to Elton John’s “Candle In The Wind;” lyrical allusions to Joni Mitchell and Tommy James and the Shondells’ “Crimson and Clover”, all peppered throughout the record in places meant to reflect what Grant is attempting to convey in those moments. One could charitably interpret all these inserts as to help analogize our current state of affairs to the disparate, idyllic, California-based musical movements of the past. The problem is that the actual music -mostly interchangeable, piano-led, string-laden balladry- is nowhere near as creatively lively as its apparent influences. Does Lana Del Rey believe all she needs to do is mention Laurel Canyon explicitly to make the connection between her work and that of those pioneering counter-culture artists? Think of how the ironic darkness of California has been novelly captured across musical history, how folk artists like Mitchell first defined what the state meant as a representation of love lost and promises unkept, how ‘70s acts like Fleetwood Mac embodied its excess, how Kim Gordon took a chainsaw to the plastic contours and perfectly-lines shrubs of the Hills, even how bands like the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Sublime (whom Rey covers on the album) channeled the escapism of its seedy drug culture. Here it’s not even appropriation: all Grant does here is evoke in words what those bands were expressing in the context of her signature style, as if to say, “I should be in that echelon as well,” without doing much else to support that claim. What could have been a truly strange San Francisco-psychedelic moment in “Venice Bitch” becomes a tame, meandering aside; harmonious folk artists find their names here without a lick of harmonies; bringing up Joni Mitchell without even attempting her sense of narrative urgency or left-of-center melody makes for a blanching comparison. Even her objectively successful cover of Sublime’s “Doin’ Time” feels more like a contributor to the record’s unique mood than a genuine juxtaposition of the times. This isn’t to say that it’s necessary to walk that path for artistic credibility, or that her aspirations are unfounded; it’s enough that she has a signature style, one that’s allowed her to forge her own path as a contemporary singer-songwriter while spurring numerous imitators. In this case though, it feels like squandered potential. Rey feels less like a pioneer than a pupil, someone who could have taken the opportunity to do something truly new with her music and instead chose tired, disappointingly easy choices.

It’s wouldn’t be so egregious if this kind of thing weren’t done so elegantly by other artists, even recently: note how Beyoncé employed an entire brass-led orchestra as both a reinterpretation of her discography and a connecting of dots between HBCUs, black pride and its relationship to Coachella’s typical clientele; or how Low, in last year’s Double Negative, hired BJ Burton to help dismantle their sound in a way that provided an actual argument about America’s downward spiral into technologically-assisted dehumanization. Even Weyes Blood, whose Titanic Rising could be considered a mirror piece, integrated the 70’s songwriter stylings of Carole King and Linda Ronstadt and did so in a way that felt purposeful and fresh. Here Lana Del Rey is just being her Lana Del Rey best with some well-placed references to California’s cultural history, and while the record is indeed gorgeous in its balladry, one can help the commotion surrounding this release is a little hyperbolic. Norman Fucking Rockwell! is arbitrarily a beautiful album, and it may even be Grant’s finest project since taking up the mantle, but it’s a little shy from The Next Best American Record.