Rating: 2.5/5 stars
On her ninth studio album, Lana Del Rey (“Blue Banisters”) asks the listener if they knew about the dormant Jergins Tunnel in Long Beach, California. Developers designed the tunnel in 1927 as a tourist attraction leading to the iconic beachside, as well as a deterrent from crowding the busy downtown streets. The tunnel closed in 1967; Del Rey begs of you to remember it and never forget her.
Del Rey constantly uses California as a metaphor for herself: her body is “a map of LA”; she is as much of a “Venice b—h” as she is Venice Beach; she is the tunnel under Ocean Boulevard. Like fellow California creator Joan Didion, Del Rey’s fascination with the Golden State has anxiety over whether its shine will last as long as it claimed. The same applies to Del Rey herself.
“Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd,” released on March 24, is Del Rey compiling all of her fractured fears together and finding beauty in what broke. This reflects on the Japanese art of kintsugi, which is also the title of the eighth track. She wonders how so many people remember old folk songs like “Froggie Came A-Courtin’” and whether her own music will be as resonant.
Opener, “The Grants,” kicks off the album with an a capella gospel and an interruption of a piano that speaks like a counterpoint, like heavenly devout is below Del Rey’s artistry. But for an album that teased the return of an edgier Del Rey, its rawness is more in its freeform lyrics than its subjects. The movement between solo piano and maximalist orchestra suggest the austere opening is less random than it sounds.
Tracks like “Let The Light In” and “Grandfather…” exhibit Del Rey’s craft of writing secular hymns. But the attempt at making a grand artistic statement stumbles in unrefined production. You can literally hear the vocal splicing on “Fingertips” and stylistic meandering.
After three opening tracks of Del Rey’s trademark lush piano ballads, the erratic trap-inspired second half “A&W” seems at first to be a wake-up. It certainly is, but it is not the ironic hip-hop switch-up that she employed on her last album. The final three tracks of “Ocean Blvd” call back to her previous adaptations of moody trap.
While on “A&W” these beats are oddly congruous, the other experiments expectedly fail to justify their incohesion. On “Peppers,” featuring Tommy Genesis (“Goldilocks X”), Del Rey’s reverb-soaked whispers, Genesis’ weird bars and the confusing mix of dreamy blues, surf rock and party rap seem directionless and sour.
The finale, “Taco Truck x VB,” samples her psychedelic epic “Venice B—h” without the line “Fresh out of f—s forever,” since here it goes without saying. Del Rey’s lyrics try for camp but end up crap; never should the line “That’s why they call me Lanita/When I get down, I’m Bonita” ever utter from her mouth if she wants to be taken seriously.
This is not even the most tone-deaf moment. Actually, no, Del Rey is not tone-deaf, the tone is so clear in her head that she thinks her inconsistency counts as postmodern. Behold: “Judah Smith Interlude” is four and a half minutes of Bible-thumper Judah Smith ranting about lust and promiscuity while Del Rey giggles into her phone. Is it sarcasm? Is it poetry? It is four and a half minutes you will never get back.
For all of its enigmatic faults, “Ocean Blvd” is at least something to think about. A Walt Whitman fan, Del Rey must know it dearly. She does contradict herself; she is large, she contains multitudes.
Image from Lana Del Rey via YouTube
