The pre-release racket has been surprisingly quiet until now, but curiosity has been piqued as of late. Or does she? Listening to the often uninspired lyrics of Ultraviolence, one would be tempted to say no, yet that’s only one marred facet of this curiously beautiful new record. She once intimated that her 2012 album Born to Die would be her last, but clearly she had more to say after last year’s short film Tropico.
Even if her latest effort Ultraviolence doesn’t break any record sales, it’s doubtful Del Rey will be going anywhere anytime soon, unless it’s on her own accord. Those who thought her expiration date would be drawing nigh have been proven wrong. That’s basically what the public has been led to believe through her recent interviews, but it seems logical enough, given that artists occasionally read commentary of their work and take what’s written to heart. Her upbringing, her backstory, and her indie cred were all intimately dissected to death, yet she somehow survived relatively unscathed, even when the constant barrage of criticism wore her down emotionally. The media’s preoccupation with the life of singer-songwriter Lana Del Rey is no different.īoth perpetually maligned and adored, Del Rey’s entrance into the music world gave critics, new fans and know-it-all hipster naysayers something to discuss and debate ever since “Video Games” saturated the blogosphere. No matter what the age, there’s always been a fascination with dissecting these figures we’ve placed upon lit pedestals.
The ordinary is fluffed up and injected with importance, even if it’s as unremarkable as buying fruit in a farmer’s market. Their daily existence is poured into something resembling a petri dish, to be analyzed and observed by the masses, while paparazzi and the media invade even their most mundane of activities. Revered by some and reviled by others, celebrities often voice their frustration with having their private lives placed on a thin sliver of glass underneath the lens of a tabloid microscope. The word “Celebrity” is both encrusted in diamonds and saturated in poison. Daunting though it may be to perpetually remain the object of public scrutiny, there has to be something quite alluring about wearing a big letter C upon one’s chest.
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