That we even know who Lana Del Rey is, in this age of Warholian fame, is reason enough to give the girl a fucking break.
“Apocalypse” is what I think when I hear Lana Del Rey, and definitely what I see watching her video, “Video Games.” It’s like a time capsule, but from last week, with hipstamatic – or rather, Viddy – texture applied, because, let’s face it, digital footage is so perfect we must simulate the patina. Besides, civilization isn’t expected to exist long enough for it age even if it were shot on film. Tick tock.
In much the same way Adele has embodied heartbreak, Lana Del Rey captures the spirit of an uncertain, mournful generation, anticipating the end of days in the miserable luxury of Hollywood’s Chateau Marmont. Then she appeared on Saturday Night Live, and word was she sucked. Truth is, she was a little stiff but she wasn’t any more anesthetized, or ambivalent about the notes than she usually is, but she didn’t suck.
That she has tapped into something in the zeitgeist and our consciousness that has welcomed her into a very specific niche – less like her own specific entity and more like the simultaneous channeling of a dozen women and eras and thoughts that lures us onto the rocks, like a siren. She’s not the best singer in the world, or in possession of the most polished presence, but its that rawness that makes her so appealing.
Here she is at Amoeba, on Sunset. She does just fine, and seriously, if any of her detractors can do better, then let’s hear it.
