In 2012, Lana Del Rey blessed the alternative music scene with her masterful debut album: Born To Die. The dark yet cheeky, All-American persona she adopted in songs like Video Games, National Anthem, and Cola carried over easily into her second offering: 2014's Ultraviolence.
A second record is often telling of how far an artist will go-- after all, the strength of their first album won't be able to carry them forever. Beyond that, no artist wants to be seen as a one hit or one album wonder.
Del Rey, while unable to outdo the success of her first album, was able to create one of the most cohesively beautiful albums I've ever heard with the sultry Ultraviolence.
When I say that this record is cohesive, I speak directly to the mood and tone of the songs. It's almost as if Del Rey's life is a fairytale gone wrong: a fray into the grittiest parts of New York City; a jaunt down the palm tree lined lanes on abandoned beaches in California.
Ultraviolence finds a unique solace in the romanticized glamor of its never-ending isolation and heartbreak. The strength of the record lies in the images it exploits: urban tragedy, gray moral areas, and love gone horribly wrong in the most gorgeous way.
The lead song on the record, Cruel World, sees Del Rey croon, "Shared my body and my mind with you, but that's all over now." This sets the tone for the way we are meant to view the men in Lana's world: as shadowy caricatures of gothic heroes on crack who slip in and out at the drop of a hat. Later, there's a cocky suggestion to "Get a little bit o' bourbon in you, go a little bit suburban, then go crazy."
The titular track, Ultraviolence, which garnered some well-deserved controversy for its use of the line "He hit me and it felt like a kiss," is one of Del Rey's most wistful songs. A dejected Lana tells us that "Loving him was never enough." Making things sadder still, the singer has admitted that this song was written about her involvement in a cult and is very much a true story.
Shades of Cool follows, as a somewhat weak effort, remedied by the ironically nostalgic hues of Brooklyn Baby.
Then we enter extremely strong territory again with the passionate sound of West Coast, which gives us nostalgia-ridden lust riding in on the steady waves of the Pacific. Immediately picture a lean man in a leather jacket, swaying on a balcony, "His Parliament['s] on fire and his hands are up."
With this song, Del Rey imbibes her universe with the haze of a high creeping in on the coattails of a lingering scent of smoke. Certainly, it's become characteristic of Lana to constantly portray substance abuse and smoking as desirable and even romantic, which is an issue that must be addressed if only for her own health if not that of her impressionable fans' well being.
Nevertheless, West Coast is probably the best song off the record given the magnitude of the sexual awakening contained in the subtle, langorous tint Del Rey has chosen to paint her scenes with.
Sad Girl and Pretty When You Cry broach Lana's tendency towards exploring unhealthy relationships with men who are alluring but flaky. She flaunts her self awareness in the simplest possible terms: "I'm a sad girl, I'm a bad girl, I'm a bad girl."
The next duo of songs--Money Power and Glory and Fucked My Way Up To The Top are intended to raise the subject of Lana's ambition. If she expressed a hunger for unresponsive men earlier, she expresses an even keener desire to be the head bitch in charge so to speak.
Old Money is the last of the memorable songs on the record (as The Other Woman falls flat sorely in terms of style and lyrical prowess). It comes across as a haunting and utterly elegant finish to a record that inhabits a black and white cinematic realm.
