By Anjali Nayak
Consisting of silent ruminations and brash interruptions, Lana Del Rey’s ninth studio album features the artist at her very best: overwhelmed in tragedy. Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd showcases the subtle art of being insane; Del Rey resorts to embracing delusion rather than face her psycho americana reality. The project is as sprawling, hypnotic, and incorrigibly American as a birds eye view of an interstate highway, all in all, it is a mess. But of course, Lana Del Rey is a brilliantly messy person.
Ocean Blvd follows the journey of an artist who arrived on the scene as a nihilist and is now searching and sincerely self-scrutinizing, sending earnest questions into an impossible void. The topic most on her mind is legacy. On the title track, Del Rey wonders out loud “When’s it going to be my turn? Don’t forget me.” Hopelessly, Del Rey asks for the listener to decide her fate. Slowly, she has come to a worrisome realization — she is simply the idea people have of her. The song “Fishtail” continues the identity crisis. Terrifyingly, she sings “You wanted me sadder/For me, you are the one.” Del Rey’s depression has come to characterize relationships with loved ones, she is simply a symbol of her boyfriend’s complete and utter control over her. Next, “Let the Light in” offers the best feature on the album. Father John Misty’s crooning perfectly captures the heartbreak of standing in the rain, waiting for someone to finally open the door. My personal favorite on the album, Jack Antonoff’s spine tingling production offers a lush foundation for the glide of Del Rey’s melancholic voice. As always, her singing is effortless. In an interview with Rolling Stone, Antonoff describes standout “Margaret” as “delightfully rom-comesque… finally, we learn that The One is not a myth.” The lyrics are simply beautiful. Del Rey reasons that love is nothing more than a gut feeling, “when you know you know.” Praise for the album cannot be complete without the inclusion of the dramatically horrific yet eye opening “Peppers.” Del Rey’s vocal ambition takes a backseat in this cut, a hypnotic groove instead sits at center stage, providing for an airy and enjoyable listen. Antonoff’s Melodrama prowess shines brightly, sliding bass lines and sudden crashes create a sense of satisfying tension. Robotically, Del Rey whispers “Hands on your knees/Angelina Jolie/Let me put my hands on your knees/You can braid my hair.”
Lana Del Rey wishes she were a God. Ocean Blvd watches the singer reluctantly admit that she too is the problem, but what stings the most is that she doesn’t have the motivation to seek help. Thankfully, ignorance is bliss. Del Rey chooses to distract herself with pure infatuation and an undying need for soft validation. Time after time, Lana Del Rey has put out nuanced escapism in the form of sophisticated storytelling, hushed tones, and a certain sense of relatability only few artists are able to wield. Ocean Blvd is no exception.