Lana Del Rey – Norman Fucking Rockwell! Review

From those glorious, high-strung first notes, the noise of change is in the air. For Lana Del Rey, Norman Fucking Rockwell! was a turning point. An essential boom for her sound and a push in the right direction of her style. Man children and manipulation are the core of this one – the opening bars of soft piano stylings contrasting the heartbreak weighing heavy. As personal an experience as it gets, and for many it remains the finest piece Rey has offered her audience. It will define her career. A title track which lays out the shocking details of bad poetry and how we fall for intimacy with the wrong people if they show us the right hand. Those notes of brass, the infectious desire put to bed and buried by those entrusted with intimacy yet unable to cope with it.  

Norman Fucking Rockwell! is not just a love lost album but a display of reactionary terrors, how those high points feel like nothing special after the dust has settled. We romanticise the choices we make at the time and in hindsight feel the fear. Mariners Apartment Complex gets to grips with the sort of placement and exploitation which falls on those who believe change can be made. Who would have thought Jack Antonoff could put something solid together? But 2019 was a different time and a lush collection of electric experiences were afforded to Rey. There is a complexity to Norman Fucking Rockwell!, though it all verges around the same point. Singular in its bleakness but enough of a story told to make it last long enough to influence listeners. A well-placed tone, consistent and unwavering. Rey has the confidence to follow this train of thought, and it is enough to fill the record with opportune experiences. 

The likes of Fuck It I Love You present the back-and-forth of an unsure heart. This must be shown as clearly as can be – and Rey does not disappoint there. Though blinkered at times the album does well to keep a consistency on its tone and message, usually refreshed by the underlying instrumental changes rather than the lyrical experimentation, of which there is little. What we can find are identifiers of our own lives, the chance to shadow Rey and admit our lives are not interesting enough to be compartmentalised by pop. The likes of Love Song have a simplicity to them. Talking down to former lovers with interests close to their heart, but of no interest to the other party. Life is a give and take, endure the boredom and find some love within it.  

Reflecting on those moments as a time of advantages taken, of scattered, planted memories which fade from focus, is a heartbreaking experience. But Rey brings about a mixed bag of ideals on Norman Fucking Rockwell!. There is an intensity and sincerity to it, but once the trick has been played, it is over. An hour of that same trick loses its way and so we fall back onto the vocal skills, constant here and powerful enough to carry the album to the bittersweet end. Our constant search for health and hope is not concluded with the pairing of another. What Norman Fucking Rockwell! slyly fails to mention is problems we have at the end of a partnership are often rooted in the start. Impressive works nonetheless but built on the temperament of soft piano work and the strings plugging your heart up.