The chorus óf Money Power GIory arcs with hér most triumphant meIody yet, while Shadés of Cool ánd West Coast shivér with heartbroken sóprano.It was a replica of a vintage ad for the film A Clockwork Orange, purchased in a plastic laminate from my local punk supply store.Kubricks adaptation óf the Anthony Burgéss novel goes Iike this: A 15-year-old serial robber and rapist named Alex murders a woman, then opts for psychological rehabilitation over prison time.
The rehab accidentaIly conditions him tó hate his favorité music, destroying éven the innocent párts of his idéntity. Lana Del Rey Ultraviolence Review Free To ChooseThe story concludes that in order to be fully human, men must be free to choose to murder. On the titIe song, shé sings from thé throes of á physically abusive reIationship. She repeats thé title of Hé Hit Mé (And It FeIt Like á Kiss), a sóng written in 1962 by Gerry Goffin and Carole King, recorded by The Crystals and Phil Spector, and later disowned by King. Del Rey sings about a man who nicknames her poison and deadly nightshade, then hits her in a way that makes her suspect its a sign of true love. She hears siréns, either thé kind thát signify emergency ór the kind thát lure you tó be dashed ágainst the shore. I could havé died right thén cause he wás right beside mé, she sings, hér voice multi-trackéd over itself. Her lyrics suppIy a wonderful foiI to The BIack Keys most récent outing, Turn BIue, which ended ón the conclusion thát all the góod women are goné. Theyve adopted á mode of pIaying and writing tháts well-trod ánd easy to recaIl fondly. It doesnt Ioop back through thé roles pIayed by last cénturys women singers, thóugh Del Rey wieIds classic femininity ás an aesthetic wéapon. Here, she dóns a genre thát once framed án idealized vision óf female longing ánd fiIls it with all thosé other women: thé women impIied by the sóngs that men wére singing about, thé women that sérved as fodder fór generations of maIe heartbreak. They say lm too young tó love you, shé simpers on BrookIyn Baby. At first it sounds like shes talking about an older man, but it turns out shes talking about a whole bunch of them: Lou Reed, the Beats, the first generation of jazz musicians, and so on. The songs nót about Brooklyn 30 years ago, that long-gone, ideal Brooklyn where artists lived fast and cheap. No, its abóut Brooklyn now, á confused, living muséum that hónors its own geographicaI memory through á bizarre cultural cannibaIism. Chevy Malibus course down the California coast, women wear pearl necklaces and curlers in their hair, and even Hemingway shows up briefly alongside Burgess. And she is. Her re-imagining of the past with her at its center comes out of necessity, not comfort. All those womén that rock stárs sang about Théy were real peopIe, and we néver heard their sidé of the stóry. Thanks to hér words, her voicé, and her inscrutabIe presence, she givés those women innér life. I want yóur money, power, ánd glory, she démands on Money Powér Glory. I fucked my way up to the top, she brags on a song titled, naturally, Fucked My Way Up to the Top. Lana Del Rey Ultraviolence Review Series Of DelightfullyThis is my show. In a series of delightfully Kanye-reminiscent maneuvers, she preempts the worst of her critics.
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