Lana Del Rey’s newest album is worth diving into


I don’t know much about Lana Del Rey. With the exception of a few songs, listening to her newest album Norman F*cking Rockwell! was the first time I had heard her sing. I didn’t like it, but I also did. I was uncertain at only ten seconds in. 

The album is much longer than ten seconds, though; it soars in length, with a wingspan of sixty-seven minutes. I knew it would be a doozy to listen to, let alone write about. Then, I actually listened to it. I gave it a chance. Then, I listened again. And again. After being serenaded by Lana Del Rey for more than three hours, I decided I liked the album. 

The opening song, which shares the same title as the album, made me realize that listening to Lana Del Rey is not a one-sided conversation. Her voice blurs when you don’t listen intently. The highs and lows captivate you, and the words and whimsy cast a spell. The first song made me realize that if I wasn’t going to listen, I shouldn’t listen at all. 

Listening to the opener made me feel like I was spinning. The first few seconds sounded almost nautical. It felt as if I spotted a new horizon after being at sea for too long—a metaphor for finding a new musical fondness.

The entire album flows delicately in a porcelain swirl that you can’t help but twirl to. I twirled my way into listening to “Doin’ Time.” A masterpiece of a song. With each second I listened, I felt like I was getting younger. The song is not an original, but Del Rey’s voice most definitely is. The song is a river rushing over you, but the best part of this song is that it makes you feel like you can breathe underwater. 

Long, glacé chords introduce “Love song.” From the beginning, it’s clear that this song puts a spotlight on Del Rey’s singing. Her voice rings that much clearer. It echoes in your ears and hums in your heart. This song is elegance in lyricism. “In your car, I’m a star and I’m burnin’ through you” and “Oh, be my once in a lifetime” are just two examples of the words that you just want to swim in.

With each second I listened, I felt like I was getting younger.”

“How to disappear” deviates from the rest. You don’t move while listening to it: you glide. Gravity doesn’t hold you down as you listen to it; you float. You don’t just listen to this song; you feel it. Listening to “How to disappear” makes you feel like you’re tiptoeing on lily pads. It turns clarity to a translucency: a humble haziness. 

The album concedes with “hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have – but I have it.” It’s a mouthful to say, yes, but it’s even more of a mindful to comprehend. The lyrics are astounding. They tell a story, and Del Rey’s voice makes it clear how much this story means to her. Emotion and beauty drip from her voice and cling to you like water droplets after a swim. 

A chilly feeling overcomes you once the album ends. It’s much like the cold that comes over you once you step out from the ocean after being one with the waves for a while. After finishing the album, I just wanted to rush back in and hear more from Lana Del Rey.

Lucky for me, I’ve only just dipped my toe in the pool of Lana Del Rey’s vast discography, and I’m ready to dive back in.