![]() ![]() It starts as almost claustrophobic, minor-key folk. True to classic album tropes, Norman Fucking Rockwell even includes a bona fide epic in the dense, multilayered “Venice Bitch”. There are singles here, but the songs all hang together beautifully as a cohesive collection. Overall, Norman Fucking Rockwell immerses itself in the lost art of the album. culture lens from the ’70s to the ’90s, providing a welcome change of context. At first blush, it seems like an anomaly to the rest of the album’s more sophisticated touchstones (who covers Sublime besides Sublime cover bands?), but Del Rey is smartly refocusing her L.A. The nihilistic valentine “Fuck It I Love You” has a modern pop song propulsion, as does the album’s lone cover, Sublime’s “Doin’ Time”, which rolls along on a sultry trip-hop vibe. There are nods to a more contemporary style that harkens back to Del Rey’s earlier work. It’s about a pretentious party-goer: “Self-loathing poet, resident Laurel Canyon know-it-all / You talk to the walls when the party gets bored of you.” The dark majesty of the title track devolves near its conclusion, as Del Rey’s ethereal vocalizing is overtaken by psychedelic effects as if the song is being swallowed whole, regal French horns and all. The downbeat, piano-led arrangements remain remarkably consistent throughout Norman Fucking Rockwell, with odd, David Lynchian touches giving the songs an almost Gothic creepiness. Her bluntness fits the material like a glove. Here, it’s merely her most naked way to express dissatisfaction and disappointment. It’s not just lyrical references to iPads and GPS pin-drops her propensity for profanity would appear, in lesser hands, as gratuitous shock value. Like her similarly inspired counterpart, Father John Misty – who appeared in one of her videos and covered one of her songs – Del Rey effectively connects her old soul mentality to contemporary culture. ![]() This is an album that should come with a bottle of Quaaludes and a weekend reservation at the Chateau Marmont. Lush, Randy Newmanesque arrangements, major seventh piano chords straight out of vintage Warren Zevon, and a variety of Joni Mitchellisms color Del Rey’s deadpan sadness and sweeping resignation. But that’s what happens on the title track of Norman Fucking Rockwell, Lana Del Rey’s latest studio album and perhaps her most cohesive and direct so far.ĭel Rey has often rooted her music in heartbreak, depression, and the crumbling American Dream, but on Norman Fucking Rockwell, she drapes those themes in the distinctive musical aura of 1970s Hollywood. There’s nothing quite like kicking off an album with “God damn, man-child / You fucked me so good that I almost said ‘I love you'” to let the general public know that you’re not playing by the general rules of commercial pop music. ![]()
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