Lana Del Rey
Ultraviolence

In the era of Social Networks, selfies, and the (somewhat) Fugens and (somewhat) Fotograficus Homo, in this July of 2014, year of the Common Era...

Surrounded by resurrected champions of (pseudo)spontaneity of the nineties, besieged by twenty-somethings undecided whether to prefer the fossils of the '60s and '70s (some even revived after a revival counter-revolution) or the mimicking hipsters and counter-hipsters. It's a grim era where you're more likely to find fascist regurgitations in social centers than on sailboats.

So, desperate, I search for diamonds in recycling bins (in areas where it is above 40%) but settle for pieces of plastic: if all that glitters is not gold, then what is opaque is definitely a product of hydrocarbon processing.

The concept of Freedom is that strange thing that allows fools to say nonsense and accuse those who point out the triviality of their follies of not respecting others' opinions; as for the concept of Truth, I gave up eons ago.

If I had to listen to all the newly graduated and newly graduated pundits of these last five years, I would have to surrender to considering this record a product suitable for hipsters in a motivational crisis or those interested only in the cool and glossy side of dark atmospheres. If, but only if (to not offend anyone's sensitivity), I listened to all the "autodafé" critics born before 1988, I would die bored from pompousness about real and simulated despair.

Therefore, not knowing whom to believe or trust anymore, I prefer those who, with a (rather) laconic smile or a (Botox-enhanced) pout, sell me Polyvinyl Chloride without pretending it's topaz.

There are far fewer references to Black Music and the more heavy-handed R'n'B compared to our previous work, and you can tell that Auerbach's fee for the production was (more than) adequate and deserved: it is immediately noticeable from the fil rouge, which is no longer "vetero-nineties" electronics but one that flows over a more classic and elegant Blues (and references to genre standards abound) and a less intrusive orchestral setup. An evolution that runs on a fine line that could break at any moment (the future is as fickle as the target audience), but over the course of this record, it holds, and that is enough for me. In the Summer of 2014, having songs like "Cruel World," "Brooklyn Baby," "West Coast," and "Fucked my Way Up to the Top" at earshot, ignoring the cries of the Anti-hipster Counter-Reformation, is a luxury I gladly indulge in.

"Ultraviolence"

"Don't mistake lack of talent for genius" (Peter Steele)