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Rolling Stone UK, March 9, 2023

After a decade of feeling unexcited after the critical response to her debut album Born to Die, the greatest American songwriter of the 21st century is finally inspired about her career and life again. Rolling Stone UK meets her in LA to discuss the “overculture”, romance and her new album, Did You know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd.

Lana Del Rey had not felt enthusiastic for more than a decade. Her career wasn’t animating her like it used to. Everything felt like an endurance test. This went on for a terribly long time, she says, but it’s over now. It ended three months ago, actually. She and her younger brother Charles, with whom she is highly energetically in tune, went to a mall in the Valley with their sister Caroline’s baby. It was a slow day of total serenity. They breezed through the aisles with their face masks on, invisible to people. After they pulled out of the parking area in separate vehicles, Charles called her and said, “Do you feel like something’s different?”

And Lana Del Rey took an emotional and metaphysical reading of her atmosphere and said, “That’s so funny. I really, really do.”

There was no obvious logic to why this change occurred. “That’s the funniest thing about life,” she tells me in her breathy Old Hollywood voice, sitting on an outdoor sofa in a backyard in Los Angeles. “You can pray and pray and pray to feel unburdened, but for no explanation for why and when, all of a sudden everything lifts.”

Del Rey’s persistent lack of excitement began with the scathing critical reception of her 2012 debut album, Born to Die. Despite its hit status with the public and immediate cult relevance to fans, the hip-hop-inspired orchestral pop album was initially mis-assessed by music journalists and bloggers. Her detractors said she was a hack, a fraud, a rich kid whose entire identity was a construct of a major label and her management. Last-minute changes to the album’s production altered it drastically, which didn’t help in framing who she was. “I was like: ‘This sounds really, really different now. Ballads sound like pop bangers.’ For that reason, instead of being assessed as a more left, thought-based, diaristic or whatever artist, it was assessed on a regular level, which was challenging,” Del Rey recalls. “Having such a heavy critique makes it harder to progress in a cheerful way.”

Her ideas were before their time and heralded a new era of alt-pop where Lorde, Halsey, Sky Ferreira and the next generation’s biggest pop star, Billie Eilish, emerged young, moody and sad. Maybe if some people her own age — Del Rey was then 27 years old — had reviewed and written about her, it might have been different, she thinks. That’s not to say that some critics couldn’t recognise her distinct star power. In an article in the Guardian — one of many that circled the unimportant question of her ‘authenticity’ — a pop-culture magazine editor defended her, saying, “I think she cares about the art that she is creating. I don’t think that’s fake at all,” and adding that, “Lana Del Rey can go anywhere she wants to go. She’s going to one day be the cover of Rolling Stone.”

The year of the album’s release, Del Rey left New York, the state she grew up in, for LA to escape the media and people on the street who treated her with visceral negativity. Experiences and encounters throughout her mid-twenties to mid-thirties further compounded the feeling that the world was not reflecting how she felt about herself. “It was like being in upside-down land,” she remembers. The driving impulse behind her work was no longer self-expression, which was true of that debut and, to a dwindling degree, her follow-up, 2014’s melancholic, stripped-back Ultraviolence. “It was not about anything other than surviving and trying to add a little bit of glamour and explanation of how I planned to get through some of the stuff I was singing about,” she says. In the case of Ultraviolence, that was contemptuous romance, being the ‘other woman’, isolation and loss. Later, it would be co-dependency, passivity in relationships, fame and her complicated connections to men, her mother and America.

As Del Rey explains how she regained her former lust for life, she wonders in real time if the way we currently relate to each other more positively around mental health and trauma could have contributed. “It’s almost like no one can do any wrong, unless you’re Kanye talking about Nazis, which is, you know, a problem. But other than that, you can kind of be like, ‘Well, when I was ten, a tree fell and ever since then I haven’t felt that I could walk to the store…’. Everyone has these nuanced but specific stories that are so universal to people, and I think the culture shifting and softening had something to do with it, without me knowing about it.”

It’s a good thing because Del Rey was really wondering, ‘Where’s the regeneration period?’ Finally, she beams, after 11 years she is excited again.

Meeting Lana Del Rey in person is strange given the degree of iconography around her. She’s not in monochrome or sepia tones, nor is she wearing one of her favoured white dresses complete with palpable A-list aura. Instead, you have the uncanny sense of experiencing a deceptively understated human being like a David Lynch or Joan Didion or Patti Smith: an artist who either created a world, documented the world or really lived in the world. If you’re Del Rey, you simultaneously and prolifically do all three.

It’s mid-afternoon a few days before Valentine’s Day. I’m in the garden of a modern West Hollywood home seemingly made of stone, glass and pure light. Del Rey is exactly as any fan obsessed with her everyday paparazzi photos would hope. When she steps out through the patio doors for our interview, she’s dressed in a white V-neck, brown zip-up hoodie and yoga pants, bare-faced except for light kohl and eyelash extensions and with her long brunette hair down like a gorgeous off-duty soccer mom. She juggles a red vape, the keys to her truck, a venti Starbucks cup and an iPhone she smashed on the way here. In short, this is the most normal genius you’ve ever seen.

Del Rey moves as she speaks, with the mannerisms of a 50s luminary transported to a world of Brandy Melville, Sephora and Instagram. Her answers to questions are elusive and seem to curl and drift away like a wisp of smoke, which only underlines the fact that we don’t know much about her. She’s funny in the unsanitised and undecipherable ways your favourite creative friend would be if they were famous, like when she tweeted Azealia Banks, the rapper who started a feud with her: “U know the addy. Pull up anytime.” Or when she did an Instagram live from a Denny’s restaurant with her then-boyfriend as he gave presidential election updates to her and her fans. Or, if the rumours are to be believed, when she paid for a billboard to promote her upcoming album in an ex’s hometown — and only that town. Her casualness is at unambiguous odds with her image in photoshoots and music videos — the coiffed brunette housewife meets movie star — because she’s predominantly a songwriter and, since the release of 2019’s ambitious state-of-the-nation folk-pop album Norman Fucking Rockwell!, widely considered one of the best currently working today.

Daily life for Del Rey is just as basic and uncomplicated. Her friend and the producer of some of her most recent and best work, Jack Antonoff, is a constant witness to this. “Lana is in her truck at a gas station in LA, thinking and writing some lyrics, FaceTiming me, going to visit her friend, going to a different gas station, just sitting in the parking lot in her truck and thinking. It’s not a ‘bit’, that’s not a character,” he says. “People often don’t understand this about her, because so many people are playing characters these days. She’s just a wild soul.” As she said in an interview with Billboard a few years ago, when the muse takes her, she’s writing, but when it leaves her alone, she’s just in Starbucks, talking shit with her friends.

The mystical ordinariness of Lana Del Rey has been heightened by the fact that she decided to escape the “overculture” sometime in 2021. That year she announced she would be leaving Instagram to focus on her creative projects. She continued to use a private Instagram account, where she posts to the two million fans who didn’t miss the brief periods it was made public and accessible. The idea of an overculture — as coined by psychoanalyst Clarissa Pinkola Estés to mean the dominant culture we try to navigate without being over-assimilated into, thereby losing our unusual talents — was presented to Del Rey by her psychic Tessa Dipietro, who she sees weekly every Thursday. “I was talking to Tessa about feeling that there just wasn’t really a place for me to land, physically and psyche-wise,” she says. “I think if you’re a singer and people’s opinions of the work change so many times, you kind of realise: OK, there’s something to be learned from what you hear. At the same time, I’m definitely not one who thrives from outside validation, other than from a few people. It was very important to me to not have any influence from the outside culture that didn’t resonate with me. I always knew that I was going to do something else as well, aside from singing. To be more connected to what that path was going to be, I just needed to tune in more to my gut.”

By retreating, she believes she has begun to see the culture more clearly. Her albums have followed suit, increasingly humorous and observational in their commentary. Meanwhile, regardless of genre, her sound has distilled into something that is pure Lana: classic and glamorous with her trademark airy, theatrical vocals. She found a fellow partially off-grid companion in Antonoff. “Jack Antonoff and I are super similar in the way we know about so much that’s going on culturally, but we have no idea how. We definitely don’t read that much about it or hear that much about it, but all of those turning points in culture, somehow we’re always aware,” she explains. Often, she and Antonoff will sit together in the studio and discuss what they’re doing to try to survive the negative waves of trends in tech, self-promotion, music and society. “I think even if I was in a remote area, I would always know what’s going on and I’ve always had a little bit of an intuitive finger on the pulse of culture,” she continues. “Even when I started singing, I knew it wouldn’t completely jive right away.”

A spiritual instinct is ever-present in Del Rey, the person. As soon as she sits down, we’re laughing about astrology and the time she tweeted her birth time and everyone realised — along with her — that she’s a Cancer, not a Gemini. “Once I had a thousand dollars, I bought this beautiful Gemini medallion which is no longer relevant to me,” she hoots, clapping her hands together. She’s so impressed with her regular psychic that every time someone tells her that she must be proud of her music, she thinks, “‘You should see what these people in the wellness community can do’ — especially in LA, it’s the mecca.” Singing is a talent too, but psychic abilities to her are magic. “It’s so validating when I meet someone like that because it’s very affirmative that there’s so much more going on.”

This fascination with the otherworldly began when she was young growing up in Lake Placid, New York. “I had fun playing sports and meeting new friends, but I was concerned about why there were no television shows or talks from people and parents about where they thought we came from and why they thought we were here. It deeply troubled me from the age of four,” she remembers. “So, my parents did have their hands full with a lot of esoteric questions. I think that’s just a predisposition.” Attending a Catholic elementary school only encouraged this search for knowledge, as did her philosophy class at age 15. In the mid-00s, she went to Fordham University in the Bronx to study for a degree in philosophy with a specialism in metaphysics. “I tried to get as many questions answered in four years as I could,” she says, sagely. “And then I was taught that philosophy was a study of questions, not answers. There were no answers, which almost made things worse.”

Plenty of girls who were drawn to the idea of being looked after by a divine plan grow up to become women who exist with the exclusive purpose of knowing an all-encompassing romantic love. An impassioned relationship offers escape from the greyscale existence of living out the complicated family dynamics they typically grew up with. Del Rey announced herself as one of these women with her first artistic statement: “They say that the world was built for two / Only worth living if somebody is loving you.”

That first single ‘Video Games’ captivated restless listeners with its repeated, self-abandoning call of “It’s you, it’s you, it’s all for you”. Of that sentiment Del Rey can only say, “We were in a town of 600 for most of my life, so that seemed like what the trajectory was: school, junior college, trade school… get married?”

If you made a Venn diagram of people who narrativise their pain to survive and those who make a man the protagonist of their lives and encourage his self-mythologising, you’d find Lana Del Rey acolytes in the intersection. For obvious reasons, young women and gay men were largely possessed by the dark star of Americana when she debuted. Her early music synthesised the all-consuming concerns of my late teens and early twenties: seeking out money and nurturing from men, the ways in which sex (and the withholding of sex) was weaponised and how I resented and desired that, the exhausting and obsessive project of love that could be so easily dismissed by an idiot playing video games. In the female empowerment era of the 2010s, Del Rey represented the pleasure and fun of being a woman but also the indignity of being one when you believe romantic love will solve any material or emotional problem.

When I mention this adoring cohort of fans from the Born to Die era, Del Rey responds with a breathy gasp: “I thought it was going to be for the boys! But again, it’s funny how it turned out to be the opposite. What an amazing lesson to foray into your people: The Girls.” Her eyes widen conspiratorially. “Love the girls. Girl’s girl. How awesome is that? But no, I definitely wrote Born to Die for the boys.” A big laugh from Del Rey at how ironic this is. “I mean, if you listen to it, it’s kind of…” This impression of herself she does almost inaudibly: “Pick me! Listen to me!”

From Ultraviolence onwards, male and female critics accused Del Rey of glamourising abusive relationships. Meanwhile, other women — including Del Rey and her fans — were living out those common painful or toxic relationships. “The one thing I’ve never been spared from is having these normal, somewhat contentious relationships,” explains Del Rey, punctuating thoughts with raised eyebrows or a pointed tone. “It’s not like if you become a singer, when you date people, they feel like they have to be nice to you because if they’re not, maybe they’d be called out. That never happens. They’re still themselves completely. And I think that’s why some people might call some of my stuff polarising, because either you’ve been in a contentious family dynamic or interpersonal relationships, or you haven’t. So, if you haven’t you might use the words or phrases I’ve heard like ‘feigning fragility’, or ‘glorifying being submissive’. OK. Maybe it’s also just trying to see the light at the end of the tunnel?” To bring these narratives into a musical context and make them sonically depressing or the accompanying visuals unappealing wouldn’t work for Del Rey. “You’re writing what happened but you’re also trying to lift it up a little bit, maybe melodically in the chorus,” she says.

If emotionally abusive relationships are all you’ve ever known, there are relational lessons that have to be completed to proceed to healthier dynamics. That’s probably why Del Rey’s songs are increasingly self-possessed and full of humour about these relationships (“God damn, man child,” she practically winks to us as she opens ‘Norman Fucking Rockwell!’). Often these lessons come directly from specific people, Del Rey says, referring to a relationship with one particular man: “The lesson was so shocking and it didn’t even really take the sting out of it. But I realised only that person with that particular look and stature and cheerful disposition that people considered him to have — that almost made me look like I wasn’t the positive one — only that kind of person could’ve brought me to my knees in the way that I needed to see what else I could add to my life to have a baseline foundation so that I could always come back to myself.”

In a poem from her first collection, Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass, she describes desperately travelling to an AA meeting, knowing that she must leave her unpleasant relationship with a secretive man. She cries to the women and rehab teens while she tells her story. Del Rey ends ‘Thanks to the Locals’ with the lines: “I don’t have a pretty couplet to give resolution to this poem / nothing very eloquent to say / except that I was brave / and it would’ve been easier to stay”.

This was completely autobiographical and it’s amusing to Del Rey that no one knows she and this man were in an on-off relationship for years because they were never pictured together. “There’s also a lot of carnage that can come from being the partner to the person who is the funniest, sparkliest bar fly in the room,” she says of this relationship, laughing when she adds, “Now I’m like, ‘Get your sparkle away from me.’” She considers this person briefly, looking across to the swimming pool that takes up most of the backyard. “Everybody wants you…” Which is funny, she says, because you’d think as a singer that everyone would want her, pay her attention, not her partner. “That’s probably why I am interested in those kinds of people because it’s never about me in those cases, it’s always about them. And I love that because I don’t have to think about what people are thinking.”

The conversation moves towards our generation’s current inability to maintain a relationship. I ask if she thinks this is less because our ideals around marriage or commitment have changed and more because we’re conscious of ourselves and how we evolve which makes it harder to meet people and stay together for more than…

“…a year,” she says, finishing my sentence. “I never understood the saying ‘timing is everything’ but I get it now.” I suggest that you can torture yourself wondering if the timing had been right, you’d be together still. “That’s my whole thing. I’ve literally in the last couple of months left that whole question on the back burner. Because it would bother me.”

The metaphysical and the romantic are entwined in her mind. A recent relationship she had with someone entrenched in their own personal problems comes up and Del Rey describes the mysterious way the question of whether to go or to stay in a partnership can manifest change. “I was laying on the grass and I was so pleased with myself because I was committed to this idea that I was like, ‘It doesn’t really matter, things don’t have to be traditional or perfect, you love him, that’s fine,’” she recalls. “And as I committed, he came home and was like, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ Tessa always says as soon as the person who is somewhat ambivalent tries to put two feet into the relationship, if it’s not right the universe has a way to sweep both people out immediately.”

So, when I ask why the overarching theme in her work is romantic love, the answer seems so obvious, as though we’re repeating ourselves. “Everybody finds themselves in a different way,” she replies. “Some people really find themselves through their work, some people find themselves through travelling. I think my basic mode is that I learn more about myself from being with people, and so when it comes to the romantic side of things, if you’re monogamous and it’s one person you’re with, you just put a lot of importance on that.” It’s different to her now, though, as part of this puzzling mood shift. Now in life and in writing she is orientated towards what’s happening day to day, “not being reactive to what appears to be the reality of the current circumstance and being as proactive as you can but letting everything go.”

If you had wondered why Del Rey released two albums in 2021, it’s because one was a reactive album. It was a final decision to respond directly to circumstance. The Chemtrails over the Country Club cover art was a black and white photograph of a group of women, including Del Rey, sitting around a table presumably at one of these clubs. Some commented that given the political climate around Black Lives Matter it wouldn’t hurt for her to feature Black women on her album artwork (the women on the cover art were Del Rey’s friends and some of them were women of colour). Immediately after being condemned for her response to that criticism, Del Rey decided to create and release more music about the accusations of cultural appropriation and previous claims that she glamourised domestic abuse. “I was just like, ‘Let me try and write an album that maybe could explain why, if that was true, let’s say, I could potentially identify with certain modes of operating,’” she says. “So, Blue Banisters was more of an explanatory album, more of a defensive album, which is why I didn’t promote it, period, at all. I didn’t want anyone to listen to it. I just wanted it to be there in case anyone was ever curious for any information.”

Del Rey’s music once had a cool distance. It felt like she was melancholically singing over your shoulder. Now, however, her lines are played straight to the camera and then knock the fourth wall aside entirely to speak to you directly. There’s a playfulness, freedom and an honesty about her immediate reality on her new album, Did You know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd. Tracks flow in a jazzlike trance; classic piano and acoustic songs blend into hip-hop, pop, gospel and choral numbers. Colloquial lyrics move as fast as a Beat writer’s poem: they seamlessly speak to a friend about culture, offer mundane updates on what’s going on in her daily life, present notes on dark relationships. But songs frequently, as Antonoff notes, come together with a “voice of God, some joy or hopefulness”.

Antonoff returns as a producer on multiple tracks. “You have a weird whiplash of not knowing what you’re supposed to feel,” says Antonoff of the second single, the horror folk meets internet rap track, ‘A&W’. “That sensation is across the album: you could dissect the tone of whether it’s hints of gospel or bringing back some of the 808s and the fucked-up side of things. But in the studio, it was just about finding what is shocking in the moment.”

The tunnel under Ocean Boulevard is a real place. In LA’s downtown Long Beach, the abandoned Jergins Tunnel will still gleam if you cast a light on its white, sand and caramel-coloured tiles and beige mosaics on the floor. People walk above today not knowing what lies beneath. In the late 60s, it was sealed off and closed to the public, but once upon a time it was a subway for holidaymakers to access the beach. Cotton candy and souvenir vendors lined those walls. Not to be too literal, Del Rey says of Did You know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd, but “would it be a worrisome concept to be boxed out and sealed up with all these beautiful things inside with no one able to gain access except maybe family?”

It’s a revealing query that shows Del Rey’s sensitivity around how she’s perceived and understood has softened but remains an enigmatic concern. “That was a question I had because that’s a very plausible thing that could happen with the music, with how pointed people’s perceptions of my music can be,” she explains further. “Would it probably, plausibly, get to the point where it became a body of work that made me a vessel that was sequestered to the point where only family would have access to the metaphorical tunnel?”

This album is a box of treasures of its own dedicated to family. You hear it in the constant reminders that this is what Del Rey calls a “name-out or call-out album”. She mentions her father, sister, brother, Caroline’s baby and all those loved ones around her to “keep them close in the music” because they’re with her every day. Some jokes and lines are drawn directly from conversations with her girlfriends, like on ‘Fishtail’ when a friend’s date promised he would come over to her house to braid her hair, but he never did. “If people think my music is good it’s because there’s other people involved in the songs and in the process of making it. So many people,” she says, with a smile at just how good it is.

On the title track and first single, Del Rey asks longingly, “When’s it gonna be my turn?” Though she says this refers to wondering when it’s her turn for anything to happen for her, the question of whether she will carry the family line on by being a mother and when (and whether marriage and love is included in that) appears multiple times across the album. As for maternal yearnings, she’ll only talk about the passage in The Bell Jar when Sylvia Plath’s protagonist considers the metaphorical tree of life choices that face a woman: marriage, children, career options and so on. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet, Plath wrote.

“It’s giving fig tree,” says Del Rey. “It’s giving Sylvia Plath, so many figs and if I don’t pick one first, they’ll all wither away and then there will be no figs to choose from.”

There are questions of knowing and not knowing when it comes to love on the album. On a fairground-style meditation that wouldn’t feel out of place on a remake of Amélie (‘Paris, Texas’), Del Rey travels from Paris to Alabama barely needing to wonder about her failing relationship back home anymore: “When you know, you know / The more you know, it’s time to go”. Later, on the delightfully rom-com-esque ‘Margaret’, we learn that The One is not a myth. It was written for Antonoff’s fiancé Margaret Qualley as the kind of song that could hypothetically be played at their wedding. “So if you don’t know, don’t give up / Because you never know what the new day might bring,” Del Rey says brightly to anyone not as sure as Antonoff and Qualley. For those still searching for their person, there is always the devotional love that overarches the 77 minutes in the form of God, preacher’s lessons, and a warm and wistful spiritualism.

In the vein of including the loved ones around her, Del Rey’s ex-boyfriend, the cameraman and DP Mike Hermosa, also features as a producer on the album. If it weren’t for him the album would not exist. Every Sunday, Hermosa would play his guitar around Del Rey, who began to sneakily record him. On one occasion, she asked if she could sing along and out came ‘Did You know’ in full. “Music is like a little bird who is always right on my shoulder,” she says. “Even when I’m looking for respite someone always comes in and plays a little tune and I’m like, ‘Shit, it’s happening again.’”

From then, every available Sunday, they’d record a song on her phone. Five of those appear on the album. “When we broke up, I was like, ‘You know at some point we’re going to have to talk about the fact that you have half of this album. It will come out,’” she says. Thankfully, Hermosa heard the finished album and called her to tell her he loved it. “The water is warm out there to be a couple of different things, so he’s definitely warmed-up to it. He has to be, he’s on the album sleeve smoking a vape. He’s fucked!”

That Did You know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd feels once again so different from what she’s done before and yet a collage of everything she’s ever made — it even ends with the grimy, heavy, original and unheard version of ‘Venice Bitch’ — is testament to where Del Rey is nine studio albums into her career. “Lana is boundaryless,” says Antonoff. “She’s reached a point in her work, which is really my favourite place to work from, where there’s nowhere to go but way out into the fucking wilderness artistically. Go chase radio? That’d be so stupid. Go chase trends? So stupid. She created all the trends. It’s a freeing place, if you can accept it. The only place to go is to be a leader.” So, she sauntered ahead with the bird on her shoulder to create what was, according to her, the easiest album she’s ever made.

Do you know about telomeres? They’re the strange, hand-shaped nerve endings that shrink as you age. Experts think that within a decade we’ll be able to preserve them. During the creation of Did You know, Del Rey continued her research into telomeres and the concept of the extinction of death, wondering if she and her family will be all right, will they reach this ten-year mark? Something so freaky is naturally fascinating to Del Rey. “Why not have that be the focus: self-preservation. Just to stay around and see what happens, you know?” she says encouragingly, seeing my concerned expression. “It’s a good thing — or at least my dad has always said that it’s going to happen and he’s been waiting. He’s very in touch with the scientific revelations that have been happening throughout the past ten years, or more. But I keep seeing it now, there’s been two articles in the last two weeks.” Why not live forever!

She’s excited now, elegantly bulldozing away on a tangent. “No matter what happens from here on out, I already learned everything — I can tell — I’ve learned everything I need to know, I don’t need to experience anything else,” she says. “I’m just really happy that I pushed through all those turbulent times that were sometimes brought upon by myself and sometimes were suppressed onto me by other people and things to the point that I’m just so lucky that my heart isn’t fragmented all over the world, bits of it with other people who it doesn’t belong to, that my head is clear enough to not have my self-will run riot all the time.”

“And,” she says as a grin strikes her face, “to still enjoy the fucking fact that I’m on the cover of Rolling Stone. Are you kidding me?! To be able to enjoy that and also to know that it’s about the experience of it. To enjoy the fact, the fun literal fact, that you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone. The first time I was on the cover of US Rolling Stone, I couldn’t believe it but what’s more unbelievable is 11 years later to be on the cover of UK Rolling Stone. That’s unfathomable. I can’t actually even register it. It’s wild.” Later, she’ll pass through the patio doors into the open-plan kitchen and use her hands and upper body strength to spring off the table like a baby lamb, saying, “I’m on the cover of Rolling Stone!” It’s a jubilant surprise for anyone in the room who witnesses it.

The interview on the patio has essentially finished because we’ve segued into Lana Del Rey giving me advice on her specialist subject (men). We hunch over her iPhone to see a photo she took of a forgotten copy of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience that she discovered when going through her old belongings. Years ago, Del Rey wrote something on the sleeve. “What a beautiful concept: to have a bottom line of what you will not do. I myself would love to be with someone who doesn’t believe in pressure and someone who ignites passion not just safely, someone whose look reminds me of why I love living, a person whose naturalness reminds me of my own and that beauty is to be enjoyed.”

We sit back on the garden furniture, and she gives me the patient look of an older sister imparting knowledge. Then she says, delicately and so off-handedly it’s coy, “I had a lot of ideas there.”

Originally published on rollingstone.co.uk with the headline Lana Del Rey: she does it for the girls.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Interview Magazine, February 14, 2023

FRIDAY 12:30 PM JAN. 13, 2023 LA

LANA DEL REY: How’s it going, sweet girl?

BILLIE EILISH: Lana, dude. Thank you for thinking of me. I am absolutely stoked out of my fucking mind.

[Laughs]

You were my lock screen on the first phone I ever got.

Oh my god.

I knew for months before I got my first iPhone that it was going to be that fucking photo of you with the bee on your lip.

You know what’s funny? That bee picture was for Interview Germany.

No way. I remember showing everybody. I grew up homeschooled, but we still had…

I’m so fucking jealous of that.

It was pretty tight, but we still had talent shows even though we didn’t have a school. I was all up in the talent show singing your stuff.

What?!

Dude, come on.

Do we have any footage? [Laughs]

Oh yeah. I sang “Brooklyn Baby” at the last one I did. I’d film myself covering your songs and pretend that I was gonna blow up on YouTube from them, and then they’d get two views.

And you did.

No I didn’t! [Laughs]

Well, later in life. I remember seeing the first videos of you singing and I said to my managers, “She’s the one.”

Oh my god.

I was like, “This is the girl. She isn’t just talented. You can tell she’s kind.” It didn’t feel like you were aspiring to be anything. It’s crazy to have that magical quality.

Lana, please. We’re here to talk about you, for the love of god. You’re putting out another album [Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd]. How are you feeling? Are you dreading it? Are you excited? Are you nervous?

All of it, as usual. At first, I was super excited because I started it with Mike Hermosa, a DP and cameraman who, as far as I knew, was not a musician. Every Sunday morning, he’d lie around and play these licks on his guitar. One day, I was like, “Do you think I could record that?” Then I’d sit down and start singing. After five months we went into the studio with the guys I know from Echo Park, like Drew Erickson, Benji, and Zach Dawes. Later, I found out they were composing for all these great people like Weyes Blood and Father John Misty and Pink Floyd. Mike was like, “I’ve never been in a studio, so I don’t really feel like I should be a session player.” And I was like, “I know it’s a lot to go into that ISO booth and play what we have been playing for fun, but just try it.” Then Drew would come in and record these beautiful strings. I would talk about wanting a little bit of a spiritual element and we talked about working with Melodye [Perry] and Pattie [Howard] and a couple of women who had toured with Whitney Houston, which was just unfathomable to me that I could be in the same room with them. So that started building one element of the sound for maybe one-fifth of the album.

Amazing.

For those nine months, I was as comfy as could be. Then, things started leaking and I wasn’t sure how. It brought back all this weird tension of, “I know it’s not about money, but what else are they seeing if they can somehow transcribe all the words in the song?” I started getting nervous about peripheral things, and then I told everyone I wanted to wait until August because I wasn’t feeling ready. Then, as things started to leak, I thought, “You know what? It has been done for a year, so I’ll just move ahead with it.”

Wow.

I feel differently on different days. It’s all about the process, not so much the results. Now, I feel good about it. The shoot we just had, that was the biggest production I’ve ever been on and it went so well. I was nervous about the interview, because when me and Mel [Ottenberg, Interview’s editor-in-chief] talked about it, I was like, it could only be only Billie or John Waters. When they said you wanted to do it, I was so happy.

I can’t believe you even thought of me. But dude, this has been done for a year?

September 2022 was the very last song I wrote. It’s a song called “Margaret,” about Jack Antonoff’s fiance [Margaret Qualley]. I was like, “You know what? I want to write a song for him.” It lands right in the middle of the album. It’s funny, this album felt totally effortless. When I did Norman Fucking Rockwell! it was about world-building, whereas this was straight vibing.

I love that. You can hear it in the music that you’re feeling yourself. It feels like you’re comfortable. You sound like you’re surrounded by good people. I would love to hear, specifically with this album, and also in general, how much of your writing is based on reality or fantasy or other people’s experiences. That was one of my biggest inspirations from you—your storytelling abilities and your ability to write from a character’s point of view. I find it a lot easier to write a song if it’s not about my life and if it’s not true. [Laughs]

Which is funny because they sound like they’re straight from you. Last night, I had a conversation with my friend Jack. Something had happened when he was in New York and he was telling me about it, and we were kind of worried. He was like, “I know you get it because you’ve gone through dot-dot-dot. You’re so brave.” I laughed and I was like, “Brave is the last word I would use to describe myself.” So much of my life is sitting at my metaphorical desk alone and writing. But with this album, the majority of it is my innermost thoughts. Some of the songs are super long and wordy like “Kintsugi” and “Fingertips.” I was almost nervous to send the voice notes to Drew Erickson.

Yeah.

I’d go on a seven-minute rant with a repetitive melody. It would be exactly what I was thinking about, mostly family and whether everything was going to pan out alright in the end. I had been reading so many articles that my father and I followed up on over the last ten years about the discovery of telomeres and the extinction of death and how we’ve always been edging towards this point in science where that would be a possibility. With my dad and my brother and sister all living together, that was on my mind. So much of this album is based on the concerns or hopes in my mind. With past stuff, I would talk about the garden of evil and good and bad, but I really was meeting some characters. Like they used to say, “When girls got to Hollywood, they were fresh off the boat.” I didn’t hear that term until later, but I did meet some people that I thought were really cool who were like, “Do you want to go to the Guns N’ Roses concert?” And I would be like, “Yeah.” Then, somehow I would be sitting in a garden and I would see David Lynch behind a red curtain with a cigarette. Some of the people I was hanging out with, I found out later, were unsavory characters, and so they played a part in the writing.

Right.

For instance, when I got to L.A. I was mostly touring. I didn’t know that many people. It took me a long time to figure out where my roots were. I had a lot of random experiences that I wrote about, and at the time, they made me really happy because I was like, “I’m not just watching someone else live their life, I’m living my life,” which was new for me because I’ve always been so shy. I don’t write well when I’m not happy, which is funny because there is a blue tone to the songs. It was like 90 percent reality. I think the storytelling vibe that people get is because I was just in awe of the things that were going on. Coming from a farming town, L.A. was never a possibility. My brother and sister and I always say, every time we drive through a perfectly symmetrical palm tree lane, we feel like we’re on a set. Maybe it was my lens on how heightened everything felt. God, I’m very long-winded. I just recently realized that I talk a lot.

[Laughs] I love it. I feel like I’ve never listened harder in my life. I feel like a student.

That makes me so happy. The one good thing about listening to this class is that I’m a trustworthy teacher. If anyone ever wants to learn how to get through a storm and know that all things pass, I can teach that class. [Laughs]

Yeah, man. You’ve also been doing this for so long.

I was just thinking about that.

I’m really curious, and you can feel free to say fuck off, but you are so romanticized online, specifically different eras of you and your music and your visuals. You were always the coolest of the cool in my world, but I was wondering if having older versions of yourself romanticized later in life might give you this feeling of, “When I was doing that, you guys did not give me that same validation and gratification.”

Yes. I was thinking about this last night actually, if it’s better to be initiated into that club where it’s like, “She’s wonderful,” right away. Once things grew on YouTube, I expected that there was going to be this very niche lane where I knew that I could thrive, but it didn’t really go that way. I quickly shifted right into the middle lane where everyone could see it and could hear the music. As soon as that happened, I knew I was in for it, but I didn’t know to what extent. In the beginning, I was following the mantra: “It’s all about how you feel, not about what other people think.” I had never thought that one day Bruce Springsteen would say something like, “I think she’s one of the most beautiful American songwriters” after Sasha Frere-Jones said, “Change your name, change your face, and try a new career,” and Jon Caramanica was going off about whatever—this was in The New Yorker and New York magazine, and I lived in New York. [Ed. note: The previous quote cannot verifiably be attributed to Sasha Frere-Jones. You can read his 2012 New Yorker piece on Ms. Del Rey here.] All of a sudden, I was walking down the street as I always did, and people would throw elbows at me. I was like, “Oh my god, no way did that actually happen. Someone recognized me and gave me a shove.” Or in San Francisco, I was eating at a bistro and a woman threw a book about feminism at my face. I thought I was completely in for it. I thought that all I could do was just keep touring. So, I toured for nine years and kept my head down. I didn’t think anything could ever get elevated to the point where, for instance, Interview magazine would say, “You’re on the cover.” Even still, it’s like, “Really?”

No way.

When things shift radically in your life you have to almost want to have a radical perspective shift. You can’t force it, but if you stay calm, all of a sudden, it comes. I know that the process I went through is not the process a lot of people went through. Everyone gets their fair share of think pieces, but there were definitely some 60-page articles about me being the face of feminine submission and the pro-domestic whatever. That was quite tough, because at the time, I was just trying to figure things out. Now, you hear a lot of singer-songwriters and rappers talking about how things really are in their lives, and a lot of it is super messy. And everyone’s like, “The storytelling is amazing, and I love that they’re baring it all.” I always felt with me that there was some catch-22 and I wasn’t sure what it was for a long time. Then, I cracked the code and realized they were tapping into the fact that there was something a little weird and different going on with me, but I didn’t really know that. And so it actually was a blessing because I got to figure out what they were tuning into—what they said was so dark—that I didn’t see. I was like, “What are they seeing in this shadow side that I’m not seeing?” That opened a door for me to think about the way everything had gone from when I was little up until now. And so, that was a very shrouded gift.

It’s so fascinating to hear you talk about that. I relate to so much of it. And also, this was all happening to you in such a different time.

The era was definitely different. I remember talking to friends at that time where they were like, “Are you afraid to make one misstep?” I was like, “Yeah, I do feel like one wrong step could ruin everything.” That’s why I was very tentative and didn’t talk too much. Whereas now, people have all these brand deals and things where it doesn’t really matter if something goes wrong, because there’s always the next thing.

But also, they don’t ever let anything go. You literally can’t make a single mistake ever. No matter what you do to redeem yourself, it doesn’t matter. They decide that’s who you are and that you deserve death.

Right. I think that also, people are being a lot more careful with what they say. I remember my first big interview with Rolling Stone for Ultraviolence. He asked me about the song “Sad Girl.” Where it goes: [sings] “I’m a sad girl, I’m a sad girl, I’m a sad girl.” He said, “At 29, don’t you feel uncomfortable calling yourself a girl?” I was like, “You mean instead of?” And he said, “Well, a woman. I mean, you’re like 30.” I was really caught off guard because I wanted to talk about how I mixed my own album with this guy Robert Orton. Then, I said, “Well, what about that Jennifer Lopez song [‘Girls’] or the Beyoncé song ‘Girls Run the World’? I think she’s older than me.” And he was like, “That’s different. That’s a fun song.” I don’t feel like those kinds of questions get asked anymore. For me, it was trial by fire. It’s definitely a different era now.

I have trouble remembering this when I feel very hated and disliked.

Which is such a crazy concept to me with you, but yes.

Well, you should know that in my eyes, you could do no wrong. But I have this inevitable feeling of, “Oh, everyone hates me.” With the world of TikTok and social media, there is a level where it’s kind of true, because there are these videos. I’m lying in bed last night, and I go on TikTok because I’m falling asleep, and I just want to be mindless for a second, watch some funny videos.

Totally.

I keep scrolling and I’m thinking, “Billie, put your phone away. You’re getting tired.” Then I swipe to the next one and it’s a video with millions of likes and it’s something about how I’m a horrible person. And all these comments are like, “I’m so glad that you guys are seeing through her.” And I’m like, “Damn.”

That is so hard for me to fathom. You know what I think? It’s always the nice ones. [Laughs] I feel you’re almost—I don’t know what the word is, not impermeable, but it’s almost like there’s a shield around you. I think that’s because you have revealed so much that there is nothing to say about you. With me, if people feel like there’s a veneer, there’s so much to reflect off of that. I’ve never read anything crazy about you until, of course, anytime dating comes into the picture, that’s whenever things get crazy for me, but then it goes away. But I always felt like there’s just such a warmth there between you and your family. It just made me feel like you’ve got that shield.

I do. It’s really true. You need to shut up about me because you’re being too serious. [Laughs]

I’m going to stop.

Also, you should know that any time you ever felt like any part of the world was against you, nobody else thought that. Because I find myself thinking everybody hates me when really, that’s such a tiny sliver of reality.

It can definitely limit your beliefs in terms of what the future holds. It’s like, “Is the way people talk about me going to change the way people relate to me every day?” Because every day is still so normal for me. I mean, there are things that are not normal, but I wanted to have the same encounters and be able to observe people in a coffee shop the way anyone would. If your circumstances are negative, of course you have to accept that, but it’s so important to not focus on a negative situation that you don’t really have anything to do with. It’s a ride that you’re on, and you have to just keep on tuning in to what you want.

Right.

Sometimes what I wanted was to move and be in the Midwest, and that clashed with what people thought was right. I had to dig really deep into my gut and be like, “Do you really want to do this? Do you want to make a career change?” Because I love to sing, but it’s been, like, 16 years or something. I felt like I had made this deal with the press, that because I hadn’t given very much information, I was entitled to a certain amount of privacy. But what was interesting is that it had the complete opposite effect. But it was so important for me to maintain this feeling that I could still go rogue, and I could still fucking have my ear to the streets and be at the same clubs as all my friends on the East Side.

Getting back to your music, I want to know about the album artwork. I want to know about where you were and what was going on and how you thought of the title.

Mike Hermosa and I, the first song we wrote was, “Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd.” I was spending a lot of time in Long Beach and I had read that there was a tunnel sealed up under the Jergins [Trust] Building. All of the mosaic ceilings were still perfectly preserved, but no one could get in. I had also been listening to a lot of Harry Nilsson. He has this song called “Don’t Forget Me.” That sentiment plus this man-made tunnel that was sealed up but was so beautiful, I liked the idea of putting them together. I knew right off the bat that that was going to be the title. The artwork is by Neil Krug, who’s done a lot of my covers. My original cover was nude, then I thought about it, and I was like, maybe not right now, because there are some other things I want to do where I feel like that could get in the way. For each shot, we were really specific about the idea and the mood. He took 65 shots in a row and we used every single one of them, because I told him I didn’t want him to just shoot, shoot, shoot, I wanted to take my time and think about what I wanted to express in my face.

They’re so beautiful. I don’t know which one is the cover, but I saw a bunch of the shots.

That’s the other thing. At first, the title was definitely going to be Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd, and then I fucking panicked and I went to Neil’s house and said, “I know this is fucked up, but I’ve changed the title. It’s going to now be called, ‘Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd Pearl Watch Me on Ring a Bell Psycho Lifeguard.’” He was like, “What the fuck?” I was like, “I’m not telling anyone. Just mock it up.” He mocked it up, but we realized that maybe it was a bit much to have six titles in one. Then, he was like, “This is reminding me of a format that I’ve always wanted to play with. What if we just used one title, but then we filled the rest of the page with everyone who’s featured and everyone who engineered it?” He mocked that up on the portrait shot and I was like, “You did it.” That was a really psychotic day because I was like, “Am I willing to literally burn everything down to the ground by having some strange, nonsensical title?” But that’s a really good lesson because even with the nude photo, it was like, I might not have used it, but there’s definitely something there. The idea behind it was, instead of being exposed for things that weren’t true, I wanted to reveal something about myself that I actually thought was beautiful, but in the end, I got nervous about doing that because I was like, “Is this an artistic inspiration that came to me or is this a reaction to something I feel is critical about me?” I never liked to do anything in response to something that’s fear-based or based on what people think about me. I don’t know if that’ll ever come out, but if it did, I would just want to make sure it came out when I thought it was super fun and not because I had to show something to people. That part of the process was a little tumultuous, because I was feeling open, but then I closed down again and wanted to play it safe. But the good thing is that the songs are so wordy that if you listen to them carefully, they’re revealing in the same way the photo would’ve been. I was like, “Okay, I’ll let the songs do the talking for now.”

Yeah, man. You really paved the way for everyone. People have been trying to look and sound like you since you first started. I talk about this with Finneas [Eilish’s brother]. You changed the way the music industry hears and sees music, and you changed the way people sing.

[Laughs] That’s amazing because you do that.

It’s because of you, dude.

The only thing that matters is that I like it and that you and people in your world like it, because for me, it’s about separating the wheat from the shaft. Tapping in with good people and letting that be your North Star. Actually, the text you sent me out of the blue—I don’t even know how you got my number—was on one of the craziest days where I was sitting in front of the Burbank Airport watching the planes take off, which I had never done before. I was sitting on the side of the road because that day I had to make a really important decision. I was feeling really nervous about it, because I’m always the kind of person who doubles back on my important decisions. Then, you literally texted me saying something like, “I love you, and without you, I wouldn’t have been able to do certain things.” I texted my friend Anne, and I was like, “I made the right decision because Billie texted me.” I thought I needed to hear something completely different from someone else, and I got this awesome synchronicity that let me know I was in the right place at the right time.

Wow.

I will also say, in terms of everyone who’s paved the way for me, the way Cat Power delivered her songs in the ’90s and in the early 2000s, and even now—we’ve toured together and I’ve told her so many times, “I should be opening for you.” I was a high soprano, which you can kind of tell in the way that I talk, but her low tones, I would practice them the way she sang that song where she’s like, [sings] “Bay-be-doll.” I was like, “Oh my gosh, I could sing like that.” I realized I had a low register too. And when I learned that she played a big concert in New York with her back turned to the audience, that was when I realized I might have a chance. Then, I watched this documentary when I was 20 called The Devil and Daniel Johnston with my boyfriend at the time, Artie Levine, and seeing that Daniel was super different and he had a bit of a cult following, I realized there might be a chance here. I definitely had my muses, but it was so much later on in life because I didn’t move to New York until I was 18, and that was when I first heard anything other than Eminem, country, and NPR. All of a sudden, I got a fucking crash course in music.

Everything you’re saying is blowing my mind out of my skull. You will never understand how much of an impact that you have had on me in my life.

I definitely won’t, I can promise you that. But you know what? If it did anything for you, how amazing is that? Because you actually like what you do.

God, dude. Okay, well, I have to go, but I just want to say that I am always going to ride and die for you. I’m so excited about this album. I’m telling you right now, you’re the coolest of the cool.

That is hilarious.

Well, you need to shut the fuck up and listen.

Here’s the thing. It’s good to know that the coolest of the cool can still be so messy because it’s like—

It doesn’t matter.

There’s no competition. Your life is your art. I just feel lucky that you said yes, because I couldn’t see it any other way.

Thank you for thinking of me at all.

It’ll be such a blessing to look back on when this prodigious girl—woman—reminded me of the fact that there are so many ways to look at things, and that it’s all a matter of perspective. The only thing that matters is that the people that you’re obsessed with, like the way I am with you, love your stuff too. It’s such a beautiful place to start creating from. Thank you for that.

Thank you. Oh my god.

Our little flattery interview, but honestly, that’s how it is. It was always you.

Originally published on interviewmagazine.com with the headline Lana Del Rey and Billie Eilish Fall in Love, and in the March 2023 issue of Interview with the headline Lana Del Rey by Billie Eilish.

[lizzygrantarchives]

W Magazine, May 17, 2022

With new music on the way, the singer-songwriter sits down with Gucci’s Alessandro Michele to discuss her unique creative process.

Sands Point, the tip of a peninsula on the North Shore of Long Island, was the inspiration for East Egg, the fictional Gold Coast setting of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Once a rural retreat for robber barons, it’s now a nature preserve that abuts a New York City suburb. But a few Gilded Age mansions still remain along the shore, among them Castle Gould, an imposing stone pile modeled after an Irish manor. These days, from the beach, instead of a mysterious green light, one sees the high-rise buildings of downtown New Rochelle. Where champagne-fueled lawn parties might once have taken place, there’s now a dog run with a chain-link fence.

A castle in the suburbs feels like a very Lana Del Rey sort of place. Throughout her career, the 36-year-old musician, born Elizabeth Grant, has turned a hazy but unflinching lens on the concept of Americana, peeling back the sunny veneer of the American dream to reveal what’s really there. On her album covers, she’s a flower child in front of a beat-up pickup truck or a passenger on a sailing yacht, reaching out for help with acid yellow nails as the shoreline burns behind her. Even the titles of her records—Chemtrails Over the Country Club; Norman Fucking Rockwell!—hint at elements of the mundane or even sinister beneath a glamorous ideal.

It’s clear that the world Del Rey builds in her music is the one she inhabits. From the minute she steps out of a wardrobe trailer looking like a modern-day Jackie Kennedy in a black Gucci dress, holding a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, she imbues her surroundings with a certain charge. And she seems to literally radiate warmth: On an unseasonably cold, damp afternoon, as production and hair and makeup teams shiver in fleeces and anoraks, she wades into Long Island Sound in a sheer Valentino gown and emerges from the gray-brown water laughing.

As she prepares to release new music—a still untitled album is in the works—we invited the musician to have a conversation with Alessandro Michele, the creative director of Gucci, who, like Del Rey, has an alchemical relationship with nostalgia. Friends and collaborators for years, they both have a talent for twisting and prodding at tropes and historical references, using them as grist for work that feels entirely fresh. Here, they discuss the creative process, finding inspiration in the natural world, and working from the heart. —Andrea Whittle

Alessandro Michele: We met when we first did the Met Gala together in 2018, I think? I’m not good with dates.

Lana Del Rey: That’s why we’re creatives. I remember talking on the phone years ago. I couldn’t believe it when you told me you had been listening to my record while working on a new collection.

I think that you are going to remain forever in everybody’s mind with that Met Gala outfit—you looked like a goddess, like a saint. When you’re a creative person, it’s beautiful to be in touch with people like you, who are so delicate and sensitive. I’m still listening to your music, and I’m dreaming with your words.

I think delicacy comes out of being in a world where people can be very rough. When someone is quick-minded and smart, it’s rare that they’re also really kind. Working with you, I could finally take a breath and let fashion be fun again, and try on different silk robes and remind myself why I loved it in the beginning. Because when I was younger, I always thought stepping into fashion would be like slipping on a gauze gown. With you, that’s literally what it was like. When we worked on my dress for the Grammys, it was a bold entrance into a bigger world, and I thought, Can I do it? Am I allowed to present myself in a beautiful way? And what I learned through you is that sometimes, stepping into beauty doesn’t provoke criticism; it invites more of an understanding, where your inside does shine out through your outside.

Do you remember the shoot we did for the Gucci Guilty campaign, when Los Angeles was on fire?

Ashes were coming into my car vent on the 405 highway because Bel Air was burning. We were in the Valley shooting a scene, and everyone was in gas masks, and the sky was orange, which somehow seemed perfect.

It was so surreal, as L.A. is surreal.

From that point on, I added fire to the hillsides in my music videos.

I like the way you use elements of nature—not just fire, but water and weather—in your music and your videos.

My dad is a deep-sea shark fisherman—he has been for 15 years—and he lived on a boat in Providence, Rhode Island, from the age of 15 to 18. He was also a storm chaser. In California, earth, wind, and fire are huge. All the elements are taken into consideration with my art, all the time. Which is funny, because people often ask why I sing about California. But I usually sing about wherever I am, and it just so happens that California is such a storm center right now. I mean, I’m from Lake Placid, the coldest spot in the nation. For me, the California landscape never gets old.

In 2020, you released a book of poetry, Violet Bent Backwards Over the Grass. When you’re writing poems, is your creative process different from when you’re writing music?

There’s a big difference. First of all, to write poetry, I have to be in a really good mood and have nothing distracting or wrong going on. I almost have to be in a state of non-thought, and it can’t be forced. When a couple of lines come into my head, it’s like they’re completely channeled—I hate when people use that word, but I’ll use it. If I’m driving, I have to pull over and think, Well, where did that come from? I remember one time I had been sitting waiting for some food, and I started thinking:

Violet bent backwards over the grass

Seven years old with dandelions grasped tightly in her hand

Arched like a bridge in a fallen handstand

Grinning wildly like a madman

With the exuberance that only doing nothing can bring...

And I thought, Am I Violet? That is a family name. Is that a little bit of karmic lineage coming in? I definitely think that writing my poetry was the beginning of a more psychic, energetic opening to my family of origin. It’s also a little more nerve-racking, because the last thing you want to end up doing is sounding like Dr. Seuss. And no one can help you with it. The only person who every now and then sparks me to write is my friend Annie, because she’s so damn funny she makes me forget myself. And it’s through that act of self-forgetting that my channel is open again. All of a sudden, the first few lines of a poem will come, and I’m reminded, Oh yeah, you work well when you’re having a good time. You can’t push it. It’s a reminder to stay serene and balanced, which is really my priority: that psychological, spiritual preservation.

Are there any poets who have been important to you?

When I found out that Allen Ginsberg wrote Howl in a few days, and then I saw Lawrence Ferlinghetti reciting Loud Prayer, I realized that I didn’t have to go slowly to have something be good. I could work fast if I wanted to. I also relate to some of the sentiments from Walt Whitman’s work, and Sylvia Plath’s—she wrote with blatant honesty about the experience of being a woman, and the history of hysteria.

In the past, you’ve used colors and certain words to describe your records. Are there words or colors you’re using to describe your new music?

I’ve been practicing meditative automatic singing, where I don’t filter anything. I’ll just sing whatever comes to mind into my Voice Notes app. It’s not perfect, obviously. There are pauses, and I stumble. But I’ve been sending those really raw-sounding files to a composer, Drew Erickson, and he’ll add an orchestra beneath the words, matching each syllable with music and adding reverb to my voice. When I’m automatic singing, I don’t have the time and leisure to think about things in terms of colors. It’s very cerebral. In Honeymoon, there were so many color references: “Sometimes I wake up in the morning to red, blue, and yellow skies. It’s so crazy I could drink it like tequila sunrise.” For this new music, there’s none of that at all. It’s more just like: I’m angry. The songs are very conversational. For the first song, I pressed record and sang, “When I look back, tracing fingertips over plastic bags, I think I wish I could extrapolate some small intention or maybe get your attention for a minute or two.” It’s a very wordy album. So there’s no room for color. It’s almost like I’m typing in my mind.

I remember during the Gucci Guilty shoot when you started to sing. Your voice is so evocative. I would say when I listen to your music, I don’t know why, but I get the color white. It’s like there is no color for me; it’s just light.

I’ve been told that I am a very black and white thinker, and I’m actually working on that, because I think it’s born out of being in survival mode. With Drew, as I send him my songs, I can see that my thought process is either very joyful or very “Look, this is how it is.”

Do you remember your dreams? Do you ever use them in your work?

I’ve only recently started having dreams that are not stressful. My dream life is this intense other life. I think that’s why I’m tired during a lot of the daytime, because my dreams are so intricate. They’re obstacle courses, and I never use them in my work. In my work, if anything, I might even be trying to calm myself down from the way my mind is churning 24 hours a day, by just talking it all through. Do your dreams dictate your creations?

Not really, but I think that using creativity in a very dreamy way is something we have in common. I dream a lot every night. Sometimes I try to write what I dream in a book, and I love when I feel myself wild and free, because the unconscious part of us is beautiful. I think that when you use creativity, you are in touch with your unconscious parts.

I’m a big studier of Carl Jung, who says that the only opportunity that the unconscious has to speak to you is through your dreams, or through automatic writing, which is similar to what I do when I’m singing into my phone in the mornings. He even suggests you write with your left hand if you’re right-handed, so you can see what comes up first. Because you have to write so slowly, you might end up writing, “Help!” Whereas with your right hand you might say, “Today went well. I took out the garbage, I did the laundry, I did phone calls,” and then suddenly you say, “And I really miss him. I really, really miss him.” And then you think, Oh, I just got to the heart of it.

In the beginning of your career, you would write lyrics on the subway late at night. Where do you write your songs now?

Well, I probably have the lowest sleep drive of anyone I’ve ever met. I have zero desire to sleep. When I lived in the Bronx, we were about maybe a half mile from a D train stop. It was always running, and you could take it to Coney Island and back. I come from a town of 700 people, and I couldn’t believe that I had the opportunity, when I wasn’t tired, to take a long walk, get a decaf coffee and a banana, whatever I could afford on a college budget, and take that D train. Now there are so many fewer words that come to me when I’m alone. I seem to need to be sitting with someone. It’s a little frustrating, because for so many years I was rich with ideas. Now I need someone to force me into the studio. Ideas don’t even come to me in the car anymore, my favorite place.

One thing we share is a love for Old Hollywood. What is it about that era that inspires you?

Everything. When I was younger, my grandparents would let me watch their old movies, and I related to the subtle nuances of the female characters. Not much needed to be said; a lot was inferred between the lines. When things got bigger for me and my career, I always assumed that just by me speaking and being myself, people would know who I was inherently. I learned that was not true. You had to really spell things out, and that was very hard for me.

When are you happiest?

When I trust my gut and follow through. I’m happiest when I see my brother and sister thriving. One of my goals is to make sure that my siblings and I are always safe. I’m happiest around my three girlfriends, Candy, Jen, and Annie, because they make me feel understood. I’m happiest when I’m lying down in the park, and I look up and I think to myself, Isn’t it beautiful that just lying on the grass and feeling the support of the earth underneath me is enough for today? I spent so much time trying to ask myself, “Why me?” and “Why this?” It’s so nice to be over that. I also love to dance. Joan Baez has a dancing party every Saturday night on Zoom, which I’m so grateful to be invited to—there’s something beautiful about dancing with very down-to-earth people.

Which song makes you cry?

“Swan Song.” It’s on my album Honeymoon. It’s the antithesis of hopefulness. It’s about trying to find beauty in giving up. If I had my way, I would continue to persist in all areas of my life, but it can be quite challenging because I can be too trusting too soon. The burn that can come from that really can incinerate your whole thinking life and your daily processes. At the end of every album, I say goodbye and thank you—very Old Hollywood style—and yet I cannot help but just continue to write.

Originally published on wmagazine.com with the headline Lana Del Rey Unfiltered, and in the Volume Three, 2022 issue of W Magazine.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Mojo, April 2021

Is Lana Del Rey – the Springsteen-approved laureate of L.A. darkness – lightening up? In 2021, a new album opens a sunnier chapter in her controversial roman-à-clef, and folk legend Joan Baez advocates her acceptance in the pantheon. But while serenity seems almost in reach, some wounds still burn and grievances rankle. “Fame can put you on the peripheries,” she tells Victoria Segal, “where the vultures can pick at you. It’s dangerous on the edges.”

IT’S MIDNIGHT IN MODESTO AND LANA DEL REY HAS swung into the backyard, pulled up in her fast car. “I told my boyfriend I was going to go out and sit in the car because I hate it when people listen to me talk,” she says. “I’m at his parents’ farm, so we’re in, like, the guest house. It’s pretty idyllic: Northern California, pretty cold, 40 degrees and a little fireplace. We had a sweet little night singing all the old Disney and holiday songs – not what I expected after a long car ride, but everyone was in a good mood.”

Tomorrow, Del Rey will hit the road back home to Los Angeles, preparing to spend Christmas Eve “with my sister and brother and just two girlfriends.” After the holiday, it will transpire she fractured her arm while spinning on her “beautiful skates” through the “twilight of the desert”: that’s why she’s wearing a sling in MOJO’s cover photograph.

Ever since she studied philosophy at New York’s Fordham University in the late 2000s, there’s been a question lurking in Del Rey’s mind: what if something happened to make the world stop? “So when it did,” she says, “I was kind of shocked.” The pandemic has inevitably hampered her movements – festivals cancelled, studio time with producer Jack Antonoff truncated – but it hasn’t slowed down her creative jumps (or her willingness to crash into social media).

September saw the publication of her poetry collection, Violet Bent Backwards Over The Grass. In November, she covered Summertime as a fundraiser for the New York and Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestras; covering all bases, she also recorded You’ll Never Walk Alone for a documentary about Liverpool FC.

The most significant landmark, however, was the completion of Chemtrails Over The Country Club, the album she has been promising (sometimes as White Hot Forever) since the release of 2019’s Norman Fucking Rockwell! Bruce Springsteen, who knows a bit about the flipside of the American dream, loved that album: “She just creates a world of her own and invites you in,” he said. The cover showed Del Rey standing on a boat, one arm around Jack Nicholson’s grandson Duke, the other reaching towards the camera as if to save the viewer from the water. Behind her, the Californian coast is on fire. The Greatest, Norman Fucking Rockwell!’s defining song, was the cover’s aural analogue: “Hawaii just missed that fireball/LA is in flames it’s getting hot… Kanye West is blond and gone/Life On Mars ain’t just a song/I hope the livestream’s almost on.” But where do you go after burning America down? Did she know what was next?

“No,” says Del Rey lightly. “I felt totally fucked.”

YOU’D HAVE GOT LONG ODDS, IN 2012, on the internet phenomenon of the previous year’s Video Games becoming the decade’s most remarkable and provocative pop star. Back then, Lana Del Rey was more think-piece cipher than Boss-approved songwriter: “a young fiction,” sniffed the Los Angeles Times, “daughter of a domain-name magnate.”

The record states that Elizabeth Woolridge Grant was born in New York in 1985; as a baby, she moved with her parents upstate to Lake Placid. Music was around, but not unusually so. “From what I was told,” she says, “I sang verses before I spoke words, but I don’t think that necessarily meant I had to, or was going to be a singer.” Much else in her supposed biography, she says, is misinformation.

“People said I came from money,” she recounts. “It was really tough to get over some stigma of this idea of having my dad buying my album and giving me a record deal and us being some rich white family when we fought over money constantly when we were young.” Later, she says “I was not from the right side of the tracks, period.”

Sent to boarding school to address an alcohol problem – a period she captured in This Is What Makes Us Girls from her Born To Die album of 2012 – she “was made fun of mercilessly for being white trash. It was so hard, every minute of it was super-tough, not having come from Greenwich. Being super straight-edge in college was just, like, crazy. It’s been the road less travelled the whole time.” She has no interest, she insists, in properly telling her own story, “beautiful” though she says it is: “I don’t give a fuck about people knowing [mocking little voice] my inner thoughts as a third grader.”

Early detractors, chasing down a narrow idea of “authenticity”, were bothered by her musical prehistory – stalled experiments and false starts that might once have been called “paying your dues”. In 2006, she made Sirens under the name May Jailer, spindly alt-folk with a Linda Perhacs wobble that was never officially released. Her next ‘first’ album, Lana Del Ray AKA Lizzy Grant, was removed by her managers from the internet in 2010, preparing a clean slate for the post-Video Games era.

Yet as the plausibly deniable satire of Brooklyn Baby from 2014’s Ultraviolence indicates (“Well my boyfriend’s in a band/He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed”), she put in the hours on New York’s grottiest stages.

In 2008, Del Rey was living in the Manhattan Mobile Home Park in New Jersey. She would also take the light rail to record with producer David Kahne on Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District – sessions that would ultimately become her first EP, Kill Kill, and the since repudiated Lana Del Ray. She had a deal with David Nichtern’s 5 Points Records; Lady Gaga’s manager Bob Leone secured her some classes at the Songwriter’s Hall Of Fame; her senior year of metaphysics at Fordham was ending. Odd little paths opened up: she auditioned for Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark, the musical scored by Bono and The Edge, and “maybe thought about Broadway. You’d get like a hundred dollars for singing background on records that would lead to nowhere. There was this company that emerged called The Orchard that was taking submissions for, like, toilet paper commercials and I probably did one, like, under a pseudonym. Definitely the happiest I’ve ever been. Stay in the middle, no dog in the race, people would even hire me for background stuff. I tried to act so cool on every sofa I sat at.”

It was only in 2010, when she met her current manager Ben Mawson at the CMJ Festival in New York’s Chinatown, that gears shifted and she glimpsed a significant future for herself: “Then I moved to London with him that week and he got me out of my deal that day.”

Success was not immediate. “I lived in a shitty flat with no heat, it was so awful – but they told me it was on Camden Road near where Amy Winehouse used to play at the Roundhouse, and I loved Amy.” Her voice softens dreamily. “I loved Amy.”

Fed up with trying to write songs for other people, one day she “just said ‘fuck it’” to her collaborator Justin Parker: “‘I’m going to write what I want to write now.’” In a Dolly Parton-style fit of productivity, within 72 hours she had Video Games, Born To Die, Blue Jeans and Ride.

On July 23, 2011, just under a month after Video Games appeared on the internet, Del Rey was on a train to Glasgow when Mawson told her she had received her first review. “I had 10 seconds of the most elated feeling,” she remembers, “and then the news everywhere, on all of the televisions, was that Amy had died on her front steps and I was like no. NO.” She breathes in sharply. “Everyone was watching, like, mesmerised, but I personally felt like I didn’t even want to sing any more.”

TEN SECONDS OF ELATION seems to be as much pleasure as Del Rey has ever taken from her press. When she covered Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood on 2015’s Honeymoon album, it was not casually chosen: anger at the way she feels she has been misrepresented surges through her conversation, despite the four billion streams, the four UK Number 1 albums, and the validation of famous fans from Stevie Nicks to Courtney Love.

Even Norman Fucking Rockwell!’s ecstatic reception was no antidote. “I knew they were going to like Norman… because there’s kind of nothing not to like about it,” she shrugs. “Norman…’s just cool, it’s easy to cheer for that.” She doesn’t, however, believe people are cheering for her: in September, she declared she still felt like an “underdog”.

“When I’m in London I’m reminded of what other people think of me in a great way. Being on the cover of MOJO – I fucking love MOJO. It’s crazy to me, crazy to me, crazy to me that I could be on the cover of MOJO but it’s a little different – ha! – over here,” she says, ie, in America. “I mean, I guess I’ll never forget my first four years of interviews. They just fucking burned me.”

There was the one where the journalist “made fun of me mercilessly, for like, five hours about how I adopted a New York City accent and that everyone knew it was fake, so just give it up. It was embarrassing – he humiliated me. So by the time he asked me about feminism, I said I just wanted to talk about aerospace travel.”

A 2014 Guardian interview headlined “I Wish I Was Dead Already” is another thorn in her psyche. “I didn’t say I wanted to die because of the 27 Club – I said I was having, like, a fucking hard time. The way people talk about mental health in 2020” – she makes the noise of an explosion – “mind blown. Talk about a different world compared with five years ago. You said anything remotely like you’re not feeling so good that day and it’s like, ‘Woah, you’ve set women back like 200 years.’ Or ‘Witch!’ It was super-hard to be a real person.”

Instead, Del Rey continued to build her musical world, creating a reality nobody could dismiss. ‘Evolution’ suggests dramatic Bowie-like shape-shifts; instead, her six albums have been a process of refining her core material – the palette of upcycled hip-hop, vintage Hollywood glamour and Laurel Canyon classicism. But Norman Fucking Rockwell!’s widescreen dazzle was a dead end of sorts – “I had to turn back inward,” she says – and Chemtrails Over The Country Club appears to reveal a more vulnerable Del Rey: lighter on the LA menace, more innocently emotional: “We did it for fun/We did it for free,” she sings sweetly on the song Yosemite, “we did it for the right reasons.” It’s an album that looks at the road ahead, but also, back to where she’s come from, making her strongest connection yet with her antecedents.

“I’ve been covering Joni and dancing with Joan,” she sings on Chemtrails…’ Dance Till We Die – and it’s all true. In October 2019, Del Rey duetted with Joan Baez on her 1975 song Diamonds And Rust at Berkeley’s Greek Theatre; a night of non-stop dancing with the 80-year-old folk hero followed. And as promised, Chemtrails… includes a Joni Mitchell cover from Mitchell’s 1970 album Ladies Of The Canyon. Reprising their October 2019 performance at the Hollywood Bowl, Del Rey shares the verses out with Arizonan singer-songwriter Zella Day and Weyes Blood’s Natalie Mering. A bittersweet commentary on the value of art, Mitchell contrasts her “velvet curtain calls” with a busker’s purity – it’s a song, says Del Rey, that means “everything” to her.

“The way things started off for me in the way I was portrayed was that I was feigning emotional sensitivity. I really didn’t like that,” she says coldly. “Because I didn’t even get famous ’til I was, like, 27 and until then, I sang for less than free. And I loved it. I really was that girl who was pure of soul. I didn’t give a fuck.”

For one, Natalie Mering doesn’t doubt Del Rey’s investment in For Free. “I think the verse that Lana sings – “Me, I play for fortunes” – it’s her story too,” she says. “She understands the ephemeral quality of music and that it can’t be completely commodified, even though she’s done such a great job of doing that. I think Joni is very similar.”

BAEZ AND MITCHELL, DEL REY says, are “like unicorns”. “Joan, Bob, Joni Mitchell, Jimi Hendrix, it’s less the albums and more the songs – the single perfect songs. Like Diamonds And Rust or Woodstock.” She rummages on You Tube to find a “staggering” 1962 coffeehouse performance from Baez. “I see a lot of people now wanting to be like other people – and hey, it’s not like I don’t want to be like other people too – but I think there were so many less options to look at in the ’60s, so you kind of just got what you got. You got a Janis or you got a Joan or you got a Jimi – it wasn’t like there was Jimi One, Jimi Two, Jimi Three. When I’m producing things alone, it’s impossible for me to sound anything other than a singer-songwriter. Actually, that’s not true,” she corrects herself. “I’ve got my own little ways about me.”

Mering, comparing Del Rey to Peggy Lee “if she was, like, I’m just going to write everything myself,” agrees. “She’s very free and she’s loose. What she goes for in terms of when she’s writing and working, it’s very magical and intuitive and it’s not very calculated – even though I think maybe she’s been accused of that in the past.”

That looseness – a willingness to wander – feels more present on Chemtrails… than previous albums, yet she insists it has been “so much harder than any other record I’ve made.” Covid separated her from Antonoff – also a collaborator with St. Vincent and Taylor Swift – in the final stages of recording and she missed him. “Everything that could be terrible is hilarious in Jack’s world. I think that’s why he does so well. It’s a rare quality for a man to have that softer kind of side – all hilarity and no inappropriateness.”

She says she finds listening to the new album “a fight”, conceding that she’s offering a pre-emptive critique. “It wasn’t so much that I thought the songs fantastically fit together with like seamless, sunkissed production – but you know, there’s a life lived in there.”

Del Rey has long used Los Angeles to colour and contour her songs. But Chemtrails roves further – Tulsa, Nebraska, Florida – a fitting backcloth for a record about freedom in a world where everything has a price. Not All Who Wander Are Lost – a song whose sky-high trill reminds Del Rey of “Cinderella in the movie where she’s holding the bluebird” – romanticises wanderlust. Wild At Heart and the title track (“I’m not unhinged or unhappy/I’m just wild”) hint at something untameable. If For Free is the record’s presiding spirit, you can also feel the vibrations of Mitchell’s Cactus Tree, a song that acknowledges the hard work of “being free” – shedding compromise, swerving control.

It’s a struggle Del Rey maps onto her folk and country influences, most explicitly on Breaking Up Slowly. A mournful lament riffing on Tammy Wynette and George Jones’s notoriously turbulent relationship, it was written with Tennessean singer-songwriter Nikki Lane, who supported Del Rey in 2019. In a hotel room, Lane mentioned that somebody told her she was “breaking up slowly”. Del Rey immediately sang “…is a hard thing to do”.

“One of the most incredible things about being around her is like, she is a song,” says Lane of Del Rey. “It’s just coming out of her at all hours of the day.”

They have written four more originals; there is also, says Del Rey, “a cover album of country songs” and one of “other folk songs”. Del Rey expects “scepticism,” but explains her father and uncle Phil Madeira (one of Emmylou Harris’s Red Dirt Boys) exposed her to country music in her youth. Her tastes are “stark and blue, somewhat outlaw”: Hank Williams, Bobbie Gentry, Patsy Cline, Wynette. “With a little Marty Robbins and Johnny Paycheck. I went back and listened to Ride [from 2012 EP Paradise] and Video Games and thought, you know, they’re kind of country. I mean, they’re definitely not pop. Maybe the way Video Games got remastered, they’re pop – but there’s something Americana about it for sure. So let’s see how these things come out – I’m not going to have pedal steel guitar on every single thing, but it is easy for me to write.”

A YEAR OR SO AGO, DEL REY attended a party with Jack Antonoff and St. Vincent at the house of Guy Oseary, manager of Madonna and U2. “Something happened,” she says, “kind of a situation like – never meet your idols. And I just thought, ‘I think it’s interesting that the best musicians end up in such terrible places.’ I thought to myself, ‘I’m going to try my best not to change because I love who I am.’ I said, ‘Jack, it’s dark.’ And he said, ‘Well, it’s dark – but I mean, it’s just a game.’”

The incident inspires a song on Chemtrails… Dark But Just A Game mixes Portishead, Ricky Nelson’s song Garden Party and Allen Ginsberg’s poem Howl (“The best ones lost their minds”) into a potent statement of defiance.

“Dark But Just A Game is so her to me,” Antonoff will tell MOJO: “fly down the rabbit hole and smile in the same breath.”

The game, however, takes its toll. As Del Rey talks, it frequently feels as if she’s dusting herself down from past humiliations, brushing off old slights.

“People are constantly inferring that I’ve done so much to myself, when I’ve never even been under anaesthesia or whatever,” she says unprompted, apparently still stung by 2012 speculations over the size of her lips. Occasionally, she makes grand statements: “I wanted music to change in the early 2000s and I wanted it to be better than it was. I think it is and I genuinely think I had a hand in it for female singer-songwriters.” They don’t land like shots from a weaponised ego – more the affirmations of someone who still feels as if she doesn’t say it, nobody will.

On a Chemtrails… song called White Dress she sings in a breathlessly rapt whisper of being “only 19”, working as a waitress, listening to The White Stripes and Kings Of Leon. “Look how I do this,” she sings with trembling innocence, “look how I’ve got this.” Then comes the fall: “It kind of makes me feel that I was better off.”

“I’m sure the grass is always greener,” Del Rey says, looking back on her waitressing days, “but I had a lot of fun dreaming about what was going to come next. Also, I really liked being of service and I still do – I do lots of little things in my spare time that put me back sort of in that service space. How I kind of grew up was to be a man amongst men and a grain of sand on the beach and I preferred to stay in the middle of the boat in that way. Sometimes I feel, with fame, it can put you on the peripheries, where the vultures can pick at you. It’s dangerous on the edges.”

“It’s not that I aspire to be the girl next door,” she says later, “but it’s just that I actually was and I think what some people don’t understand is that the girl next door has things going on, too. A lot of these other people who I see portraying that image are not that way at all – they’re like the biggest bitches who live in, like, insane mansions and who rip people off. This is not bitterness speaking at all. It’s literally just kind of just the facts, ma’am.”

In May 2020, Del Rey posted a “question for the culture” on Instagram. In it, she expressed her belief that artists including Beyoncé, Cardi B and Kehlani were applauded for portraying their sexuality in all its messy complexity, while she was accused of “glamorising abuse” in songs like Ultraviolence, where she quoted the title of The Crystals’ Goffin & King classic He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss). The culture’s answer was not sympathetic: Del Rey was held to account for appearing to single out artists of colour, and criticised for asking feminism to save a place for “women who look and act like me… the kind of women who are slated for being their authentic, delicate selves.”

“I wasn’t saying white like me,” she insists, emphasising that the women she mentioned are artists she loves. “I was saying people who are made a joke of like me.”

SHORTLY AFTER SPEAKING TO MOJO, Del Rey issues another pre-emptive social media strike, pointing out the new album’s artwork – a photograph of the singer surrounded by her friends – does feature women of colour. Three days after that, she posts a video railing against magazines suggesting she told Radio 1 DJ Annie Mac that she didn’t believe Donald Trump meant to incite the Capitol riot. In fact, she says, she was accusing him of sociopathy – a subject, she tells MOJO, she studied for six years, along with “psychopathy and narcissism and delusions of grandeur”.

“When Trump became President, I was not surprised,” she says, “because the macrocosm is the mirror of what goes on in our bedrooms. In our inner lives.

“A lot of the things I was writing [songs] about, people shamed me for,” she continues, “but I like to think now I was actually writing about what thousands of housewives were experiencing and no one ever said a thing from Brentwood to Boca Raton. I just dyed my hair black and talked about it and I got a lot of shit for it.”

She declares that “It takes a more dignified-looking person with a better reputation to call out the world, or the President or some guy who runs a restaurant. I’m going to be the person who corroborates that story, the blonde at the end of the bar… The reason why I can’t be a person who starts certain movements is because of what people have written that isn’t true. And that’s too bad – because I know a lot.”

Does she feel she’s been discredited?

“I was discredited for seven years,” she says, her voice rising so fiercely it’s briefly unclear whether she’s laughing or crying. “There’s no other way of looking it.”

In the poem SportCruiser from Violet Bent Backwards Over The Grass, Del Rey wonders if learning to fly could help her navigate life, if learning to sail would show her which way the wind was blowing. Then she realises writing is all the adventure she needs.

“I certainly have to circumnavigate the globe quite a few times to come back to the fact that what I do is that I write, that I live here in LA, that I know who I am,” she says. “I think I’m very hopeful that I’ll feel more and more serene, because that is an objective for me. I just like the idea of waking up peacefully, rather than waking up in a sweat, throwing my feet down on the ground and being like, ‘Oh, what’s going wrong today!’”

Talking earlier about her whispery vocal on White Dress, Del Rey said it was not only close to unedited “journaling” but “also, not too afraid about being kind of stupid. The way I sound in the chorus – because I know it’s… not great, you know,” she laughs.

It sounds perfect for the song, though – trembling, awestruck. The voice of somebody on the brink of something. She agrees – not because it catches her teenage perspective, but because it speaks to her now.

“I actually said to a friend the other day I feel something brewing,” she says. “And that’s the first time in a long time. I have no idea what it is. But I know that it’s good.”

Originally published in the April 2021 issue of Mojo with the headline Wild at Heart.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Q Magazine, December 2019

Her 2011 breakthrough single Video Games is the most voted-for entry in Q’s Songs Of The Decade. But Lana Del Rey’s latest album, Norman Fucking Rockwell, is a strong candidate for album of the decade, too. Ted Kessler is granted an audience in Laurel Canyon to hear how the 2010s belonged to America’s finest modern singer-songwriter.

Here’s an address in Laurel Canyon. You’ll need to order an Uber to get there as there’s no parking, so press that button at 3.30 and head out into the Los Angeles traffic on Sunset and Vine. Lana Del Rey will be ready for you at 4pm.

Leave the transience of Hollywood Boulevard in the rearview and head north-west, following ever-more leafy lanes far into the hills. Life is good up here, a picture of moneyed, rustic bohemia, with pastel stoops, houses built on stilts and floor-to-ceiling views of the Hollywood Hills. But it doesn’t matter how nice your house is when the big one hits and everything tumbles into the fire and brimstone of the San Andreas Fault. Everyone knows that approaching fear here. It’s all they ever talk about.

Pull up at some steep, winding steps beneath a lofty, proud wooden residence. Climb them, shake two pairs of hands and walk through wide-open French doors into a high-ceilinged rented kitchen-diner lined by so much vinyl there’s a ladder on wheels to reach the top shelf. She’s sitting on a stool with her back to the kitchen as you enter, scrolling through her phone, and rises to greet you with a firm handshake and an open smile. Say hello to the resident voice in your head, Lana Del Rey. “Where would you like to sit,” she asks? You really don’t mind.

“Are you a Libra?” Del Rey asks, perceptively. It’s an incredible deduction based on four words and maybe 30 seconds’ interaction.

“I only think of star signs because it’s come up in my writing for the next thing I’m doing,” she says, with a chuckle, as we pull up two chairs to a round table with a bowl of tiny red apples at its centre. “I never cared before. I did get you right as a Libra, though. Typical Libra answer.”

Lana’s a Cancer. Born on 21 June, 1985, in New York City, as Elizabeth Woolridge Grant.

“All water. A little fire. Carry my home on my back, like a crab. Crybaby. Compatible with Scorpio and Pisces, which is funnily enough my sister and my brother. Kind of cute, huh? I’m on the cusp of Gemini, which takes care of my more theatrical side.”

She presses record on her phone. Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution. “I’ve never needed it since I started doing it.” But there was that one time she wished she had done it, so she always records.

Lana Del Rey pulls at her long, loose pony-tail and straightens her back. A small, square vape. A puff of mango smoke. You have exactly one hour with America’s greatest singer and songwriter of the era. What is it that you want to know?

First of all, you have to tell her some good news.

Video Games, Lana Del Rey’s breakthrough single from 2011, has been voted the Song Of The Decade by the writers and readers of Q magazine. It won by some distance, too.

“No fucking way!” she laughs, looking absolutely thrilled, and shocked, even though later we will discover that she knew this already. Her joy seems genuine. “I mean… the best song of the decade?! People really voted for that?”

They did.

“Wow. Come on!”

It is a good song.

“One of my favourites.”

Its conception took time. Video Games finally arrived after Lana Del Rey had spent two lonely years living in East London with her manager Ben Mawson, above a fish market on Kingsland Road in Dalston.

“I was at the tail-end of 600 days of writing in London, back-to-back days. With about 111 writers. I was writing for others too. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing. I’d kind of exhausted my bigger sounds. I just worked every day. For two years, I had no friends.”

The night that Video Games was born, Del Rey was at the Sony studios in Mayfair, working with a young English writer, Justin Parker. “It was finally at the most casual point in our relationship. We’d already tried to write everything.”

On the piano, Parker started to pick out a melody in F minor. “Hmm,” thought Lana. “That’s good.” So she started to sing, in a much deeper register than she’d previously employed, “Swinging in the backyard, pull up in your fast car, whistling my name…” She knew immediately they had something serious.

“I wrote it very quickly, because it’s just that melody.” The song itself was a stately, melancholic ode to a formative boyfriend who liked to play World Of Warcraft as their happy domesticity slowly drifted off-course into a too-comfortable funk. It captures that moment when something is over before it actually officially ends. She knew it was right. She’d finally done it.

“So I sent it around to everybody and said, ‘This is it.’ And they were, like, ‘This is not it. This is six minutes long.’”

They were wrong. Coupled with a video she’d made using her own webcam segments and YouTube clips, Video Games became first a viral sensation, and then a bona-fide hit. “I’m really grateful to Fearne Cotton, too, for giving me a spin every week [on Radio 1] for four weeks. And Justin Parker is very good.”

In other words, Lana Del Rey is saying she did not do this on her own – but, really, in all the important ways, she did. She had a song that sounded how she felt at last, that represented her in a way that the music that she’d released independently earlier, both as Lana Del Rey and as Lizzy Grant hadn’t. “I wasn’t signed to anybody, but a couple of people had their eye on me. Everybody loved all the big stuff I was writing, but I was at the point where I had written in every style except my own. Now I had.”

With Video Games, she found her bearings. “It showed me a lot about myself, an insight in terms of persistence. I love to exhaust every resource before I get to that right path. But once I settle into myself and learn to trust my own style, I fall naturally into the vein of a singer-songwriter type.”

Del Rey felt her major label debut album materialise. She quickly wrote its title track Born To Die, Blue Jeans and Million Dollar Man. “Then I was like, ‘Got it.’ Racked that album and left all the 167 other songs I’d written in London behind.”

Or so she thought. “Eventually they all got leaked through my Hotmail, which fucking sucked. Cos they weren’t good. And I knew it, objectively.”

A what-can-you-do shrug. Vape. Mango smoke curls upwards beyond her eyes. Then, a smile. “It’s incredible that Video Games won Song Of The Decade. Born To Die [the album] had to sound bigger, but it’s interesting that what was its most quiet moment has won Song Of The Decade. I loved that song.” A nod. “And I still love it.”

On the sleeve of Lana Del Rey’s most recent album, Norman Fucking Rockwell, she is clutching the waist of a handsome young man on board a sailboat decorated with a Stars and Stripes flag, holding out her hand towards the listener. In the background, the Californian skyline is ablaze, as if the big one has finally hit. Come to me, she’s saying, this is your best hope of sanctuary.

In those seven years since Video Games and its parent record Born To Die, Lana Del Rey had made a further three albums before NFR arrived in August, each trying to hone what she is musically, how she writes. But it wasn’t until she met Jack Antonoff, the producer who’s worked with Taylor Swift and Lorde amongst many others, that she teamed up with a writing partner able to work in perfect relief to her.

His virtuoso musicianship and sympathetic ear collided with Del Rey’s melodic flair and once-in-a-lifetime way with a killer line. Together they created a complex, beautiful masterpiece. NFR unfolds lyrically like a great American novel about freedom, identity and the wreckage of the battle of the sexes set in modern-day California, where the stench of pot drenches every street corner and where the thump of distant G-funk mingles with the ghosts of Joni Mitchell and the other Laurel Canyon ’70s soothsayers. All the while the Pacific rolls in, and out, and every day the news cycle nags incessantly about Trump, the climate crises and the big one which is just around the corner…

It establishes Lana Del Rey as one of the truly great American songwriters of the age, perhaps the only one who has managed to distil this decade across an entire album. She’s a galaxy brain of emotional intelligence and cultural insight, armed with a skeleton key for stately melody, and who now has a writing partner with just the right palate to make it explode into Technicolor. You should take that hand she offers on the sleeve.

“It’s an album about coming into one’s own,” she decides. “And choosing to laugh rather than cry.”

This intention is clear from the very first line, she says.

“Probably my favourite line on the album. [she starts to sing it] ‘God damn man child, you fucked me so good I almost said I love you.’ That’s a tough one to sing in front of your dad. And the album ends not on a laugh, but still on a lightness.”

On that final song, Hope Is A Dangerous Thing For A Woman Like Me To Have, she sings of the many reasons why hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like her to have today, before a final echo where she softly insists three times, “But I have it…”

The motives behind these two songs, however, are not just what the album is about alone, clarifies Del Rey.

“Also, hard work. Craftsmanship. True craftsmanship. Eleven-minute songs. Fifteen chord progressions…”

Lana Del Rey raises her eyebrows.

She is already carving out the next chapter of this new imperial phase. In her 20s, she was always looking for songs to write. Now, she’ll write them when she can. Antonoff comes to Los Angeles every month and they’ll meet to see where it takes them. “Sometimes we don’t write, we just talk. And then, if I’m lucky, I’ll get a song a month.”

This next album may come in 2020, it may come in 2021, and it may be called White Hot Forever, or she may change her mind. But it will definitely have a first song and a last song decided before any others.

“I always say that if you have a closer and an opener then you know where you are going,” she explains.

She’d spent four years working on Hope Is A Dangerous Thing For A Woman Like Me To Have before she met Antonoff.

“Not because it was special, but it wasn’t piecing together. So I sang that to Jack a cappella the day I met him and we did Norman the next day. Just a series of chords that he played that I freestyled over. And I thought, ‘I’ve got the first song and I’ve got the 13th song.’ And then I pretty much know what to do in-between, I just don’t know how long it’s going to take. I have the same thing for this next album but it’s actually going to take longer than I want if it’s going to be as good as this one…”

Most importantly, though, she has the outline of the words for the next album. Certainly, if she was a white man holding a guitar and writing words as potent and poetic as she does on NFR, she’d be put on a much higher pedestal.

“They’d say I was like Johnny Cash or something,” she agrees. “It’s the words that make me feel confident about the next one. Every now and then one long phrase will come to me. Like, Hope Is A Dangerous Thing For A Woman Like Me To Have, Will You Still Love Me When I’m No Longer Young And Beautiful… I have no idea where they’re going to go, but objectively I’m, like, ‘Oof, I want to fill it in.’ So I have three of those. One in particular, Let Me Love You Like A Woman, there’s just something about it. I feel like it’s going to be really important, but I don’t know why yet. That’s where the magic comes in.”

It’s during the filling in of these long phrases that Del Rey determines the song’s meaning. Hope Is A Dangerous Thing… was easy to determine. It’s about the toxic masculinity that she’d seen displayed on her journey through musical showbusiness, and her response to it.

“I think it’s dangerous for a woman who is too kind, I really do,” she says. “That’s what it’s about. Hope is a dangerous thing for a woman who is told to bend to whatever comes along because it’s the right thing to do. So it’s less dangerous if you never gave a fuck, but if you care it’s dangerous on seven different levels.” She stops. “Do you agree?”

Kindness is not normally a trait that bad men respect.

“I always say to my male friends that good guys don’t know anything about the bad side of truly bad men.”

This may be true. However, any man who has been on a stag do, or even regularly shared a locker room as part of a team sport, can attest to the fact that even the objectively “good” men can be much worse than one imagines.

Lana Del Rey’s face sets to stone. “Well, they’re the really bad ones. It’s rare to come across someone who’s truly wonderful.”

The room falls momentarily silent. What can we do?

“Write songs about it,” says Lana Del Rey solemnly.

Lana Del Rey spends a lot of time at the wheel of her black pick-up truck, trawling the highways of her adopted state of California out of her base in Los Angeles, heading north towards San Francisco, or south towards San Diego, where she has other nests. Not because she has to, but because she needs to.

“I have to do a lot to keep my feet on the ground,” she explains. “I need to leave to come back. It’s almost like toggling. I have to really get myself out, to get myself back in. I have to toggle myself.”

Practically, this means heavy road-time. “I’ll take a month at a time commuting to Newport. It’s an hour and 20 minutes, at least 80 miles every day. So I’ll drive to Newport and come back the next day. I’ll do yoga, I’ll swim. Then I’ll come back.”

This all leaves a lot of time alone in her car with herself. “I am quite a planner. I figure things out. I’m very much from here,” places one hand on her chest, “to here.” Puts the other hand on her head. She has feelings. She has thoughts. It’s why she needs the yoga and swimming: to stretch those feelings out beyond her chest, out into her toes and fingers.

But as she drives, those feelings and thoughts start to re-emerge and she once again begins to order them. She’ll dictate lyrics and ideas for hours on end, and then she’ll have to torturously unravel them at home. She also “free-writes” every morning and evening on her old typewriter, which requires a lot of untangling before she unearths any nuggets. It’s worth it, she says.

“Jung says that every character in your dream is you,” she explains. “So every morning I wake up and think, ‘Was I the killer and the spider?!’ I’ve heard that dream analysis upon free writing is the only way your psyche can communicate to your conscious self. So if you write, write, write and eventually look at it you think, ‘Why am I writing that?’ There’s definitely something to it.”

She’ll also think about the routing of upcoming tours in her car. She’ll chew over whether she’d like to do just a friends and family circuit, a tour that takes in theatres in unusual places. Alabama. Des Moines. Places that people with multiple worldwide Number 1 albums don’t typically play. But maybe she will. Maybe she will.

“Sometimes I think enough songs have been done. Enough tours. We toured constantly for four years. And we did at least 20 summer shows as well, and our own tours. So now, we can do what we like. We can do anything.”

So when she’s driving and she has an idea about this, or that, she can make it happen. For example, last weekend she did a “friends and family show” at Jones Beach, in New York, the site of the first concert she went to 20 years ago: Bob Dylan and Paul Simon. She invited two old friends who hadn’t seen each other for 21 years to join her, as well, just because she could and thought it would be beautiful. Sean Ono Lennon came on and sang their collaboration Tomorrow Never Came for the first time ever. And, on Leonard Cohen’s birthday, his son Adam sang Leonard’s Chelsea Hotel No 2 with Lana Del Rey. Not a dry eye on Long Island.

“Man, I got to say, that show at Jones Beach has got to be the best show I ever did.” Enthusiastic vape, mango smoke. “It was just a very gentle spirit.”

It got her thinking about who else she can have join her on this tour. Next week at the Hollywood Bowl, Weyes Blood will step up alongside her, as will ’80s heartthrob Chris Isaak “just because I like him.” Joan Baez has been invited to Berkeley. “I hope she comes. Diamonds And Rust is what we have planned to sing. She’s someone I think a lot about in terms of people I want to sing with.” She picks up one of the apples from the fruit bowl.

“It’s a very special time. I’m finally getting to enjoy the fruits of my labour.”

She bites into the apple.

“These are great apples, actually,” she decides. “You should take one for the ride home.”

Before we press that Uber icon again, Donald Trump shows up, as he so often does nowadays.

This August, in response to the mass shootings in El Paso, Texas, and Dayton, Ohio, Del Rey wrote and swiftly released a single, Looking For America. In a landscape noticeably bereft of any protest singles, certainly from big, mainstream stars, Looking For America is powerfully direct. “I’m still looking for my own version of America,” runs the chorus, “One without the gun, where the flag can freely fly.” It signalled that Lana Del Rey is happy to step beneath a spotlight American pop stars tend to shun.

The day that we meet, the Trump impeachment festival is in full swing on all the news channels. Del Rey asks what the latest from CNN is. She’s happy that some legal norms still function.

“Nobody is above the law and you can’t obstruct justice,” she notes. “It’s not just because you’re an asshole.”

The Trump era has been helpfully revealing, she says.

“What I like about it is that it’s mirroring our tiny microcosms. It’s so-what culture. ‘I fucked you over? So what? I’m going to run away with your money anyway.’ Trump is reflective of that culture. I mean, he was elected. And it’s no coincidence that it is all happening at this late stage of our climate crises. Again, that’s why I like Hope Is A Dangerous Thing, because the people at the forefront of fighting climate change are so lovely. Do people listen to lovely voices? Yeah, yeah, we’ll cut emissions in 10, 20, 30 years’ time.”

And yet, she says, that the more unhinged the world becomes, the more creatively stimulated she feels. “It’s definitely no coincidence that I’m gaining clarity in the midst of crises. I think chaos brings that: lots of ‘good to know’ moments. Like, ‘Oh! That entire group of people feel the same way? I had no idea.’ It’s a time for concerted effort. If just the needle could shift, be it in terms of the climate crises or impeachment. Then, it’s a question of the damage done, culturally and environmentally.”

The time has come to press that Uber app. Where are we headed, asks Del Rey. To a hotel called Dream, opposite a bar, Black Rabbit Rose, which makes a cameo on a song on Norman Fucking Rockwell, Happiness Is A Butterfly: “Hollywood and Vine, Black Rabbit in the alley/I just wanna hold you down the avenue…”

“Black Rabbit has a magic show every Wednesday,” she says, ruefully. “Been a while since I’ve been, but I do like Hollywood and Vine. I don’t get stopped there, unlike the younger areas.”

Her biggest foe are the paparazzi.

“I’ll have quiet months, then all of a sudden I’ll be at lunch and they’ll be there and I’ll be like [gasps]. It still surprises me. It’s like waking up from a dream. ‘What are we doing here again? I was just at a taco truck, and now what the fuck?’”

She says that when she feels uprooted by fame, either by paparazzi or just by fans coming too close while grocery shopping, she can call her friends, “Sarah, Jen or Anne, and be, like, ‘You are not going to believe what happened, and who I was with, and now they will never speak to me again.’ Because it’s unusual if you are with someone and they get surprised by it too. It’s slightly alarming.”

She shrugs, and laughs.

“Living the dream!”

No way out now.

“There’s a way out,” she says firmly. “Yes, there is. I know it. I see it. Out of the corner of my left eye, I have a rabbit hole. But you know what it entails is not working. No promoting. So it’s hard, but you could make a lifestyle change. I’ve seen people do it, sometimes not intentionally.”

We step out on to the verandah. Del Rey reveals she did actually know about the Song Of The Decade award: she was so touched, in fact, that she organised her own photo and video shoot for us to use this morning in this very house. We deserve it. “I mean, Song Of The Decade? Come on!”

As we stand admiring the view and the beautiful houses of Laurel Canyon, a woman appears at the window opposite. She is fresh from the shower and clearly naked. “Ooops,” says Lana Del Rey, almost involuntarily, and pulls back inside the house. “I saw boob! I do not want to get caught looking into strangers’ bathrooms.”

Oh look, there’s our ride. A handshake, a wave and away we go back down to the grime of Hollywood Boulevard.

A week later, an email arrives. A friend of a friend was just at an Afrobeat night at a club in San Francisco, the evening before Lana Del Rey’s big show in nearby Berkeley.

As the music and lights swirled on the dancefloor, our correspondent spotted a familiar face in a booth outside the floor. Emboldened by the night’s rush, she approached Lana Del Rey.

“I love your music,” she told her, and “I’m coming to see you perform tomorrow. I often listen to you before I go out,” she added. “I listened to you tonight even.”

“That’s so funny,” replied Lana. “The person I listen to before going out is here tonight with me too,” she said, pointing to the middle of floor. “We’re actually singing together tomorrow.”

There, frugging energetically in the midst of the throng on the dancefloor, was 78-year-old songwriting legend and activist Joan Baez.

And, in that booth, Lana Del Rey smiled joyfully. She’s living the dream. Finally enjoying the fruits of her labour.

Originally published in the December 2019 issue of Q Magazine with the headline Her Majesty.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Billboard, August 22, 2019

With her new album, 'Norman Fucking Rockwell,' the singer makes her most adventurous and candid music yet -- and leads Billboard's list of the 38 most-anticipated things about music this fall.

YOU’VE GOT TO CLIMB THE HILL BEHIND the Chateau Marmont to get to the office where I’m meeting Lana Del Rey, which feels appropriately on the nose on this early-August day: The hotel is Hollywood’s ultimate nexus of glamour and doom, the keeper of 90 years of celebrity secrets that touch everyone from Bette Davis to Britney Spears. It shows up in the homemade visuals for Del Rey’s breakout single “Video Games” and in the lyrics of songs like “Off to the Races.” She lived here while writing her Paradise EP in 2012. Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski lived here, too, in Room 54, before moving to Cielo Drive where — exactly 50 years ago, as of midnight tonight — the Manson Family arrived.

But these kinds of connections are standard in the Lana Del Rey multiverse, where nods to Bob Dylan, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Elton John and Henry Miller can coexist in a single chorus and not feel overdone. (No, seriously: Play her 2017 duet with Sean Ono Lennon, “Tomorrow Never Came.”) And if the Lana of five years ago radiated significant Sharon Tate circa Valley of the Dolls energy, the 34-year-old singer-songwriter has more of a Summer of Love thing going on now. The songs she has previewed from her fifth album, the exquisitely titled Norman Fucking Rockwell, are far more Newport Folk Festival than femme fatale — meandering psych-rock jam sessions and slippery piano ballads that shout out Sylvia Plath. The narrative thread throughout all of this can lead listeners down an endless rabbit hole of references, but you can sum it up like so: The music Lana Del Rey makes could only be made by Lana Del Rey.

That means songs like the nearly 10-minute-long “Venice Bitch,” the most psychedelic tune in her catalog, or the title track, a ballad rich with one-liner gems like, “Your poetry’s bad, and you blame the news” — songs that represent the best writing in her career yet have almost zero chance of radio play. Norman Fucking Rockwell, out Aug. 30, is a “mood record,” as Del Rey describes it while perched barefoot on a velvet couch in the new office of her longtime management company, an airy pad way up in the Hollywood Hills with platinum plaques scattered about that no one has gotten around to hanging up yet. There are no big bangers, just songs you can jam out to during beach walks and long drives. This is not exactly a surprise: Del Rey’s only top 10 hit on the Billboard Hot 100 was a raving Cedric Gervais remix of her song “Summertime Sadness.” But in the streaming era, when success often means getting easily digestible singles on the right playlists, making an album that’s meant to be wallowed in for 70 minutes isn’t just inspired — it’s defiant.

Yet it’s an approach that has worked for Del Rey: Her songs, even the long, weird ones, easily rack up tens of millions of streams, and overall they have amassed a solid 3.9 billion on-demand streams in the United States, according to Nielsen Music. Collectively, her catalog of albums has sold 3.2 million copies in the United States, and all of her full-length major-label studio albums have debuted on the Billboard 200 at No. 1 or No. 2. The first of those, 2012’s Born to Die, is one of only three titles by a woman to spend over 300 weeks on the Billboard 200. (The other two: Adele’s 21 and Carole King’s Tapestry.) Born to Die also has spent 142 weeks on Billboard’s Vinyl Albums chart — more than Prince’s Purple Rain, tied with Michael Jackson’s Thriller and just behind Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. It’s an indication that, as broad as her fan base is, it also runs deep, with a ratio of hardcore devotees to casual ones that even stars with inescapable radio hits might envy.

Credit Del Rey’s strong aesthetic and singular throwback sound that, as it has moved away from its initial pop and hip-hop influences, has kept young fans interested and allowed them to grow up with her. “When we sign [an artist], it’s not necessarily what everyone was listening to, but they had real vision,” says Interscope chairman/CEO John Janick. “Lana’s at ground zero of that. There have been so many other people who’ve been inspired by Lana. She’s massive, she has sold millions of albums, but it always has been on her terms.”

This has been Del Rey’s deal from the jump. “Some people really are trying to get in the mix of the zeitgeist, and that is just not my MO — never cared,” says Del Rey, cradling a coffee with sky blue-painted fingertips. “My little heart’s path has such a distinct road that it’s almost taking me along for the ride. Like, ‘I guess we’re following this muse, and it wants to be in the woods. OK, I guess we’re packing up the truck!’ It’s truly ethereal, and it’s a huge pain in the ass.”

Del Rey’s instincts are what led Interscope to sign her to an international joint-venture deal with U.K. label Polydor in 2011 and what compelled her managers Ed Millett and Ben Mawson to create their company, TaP Music, with Del Rey as their first client in 2009. “It was at that moment of peak piracy when no one in the music business was making money, so labels just weren’t taking risks,” recalls Millett. “You’d play one of her songs at an A&R meeting, and they’d be like, ‘You know what’s selling at the moment? Kesha.’ But we were lucky with Lana because she knew exactly who she was. Our job was about making sure everybody understood that.”

That battle for understanding has followed Del Rey for much of her career. “People just couldn’t believe she could be so impactful without some svengalis behind her. I still think there’s a tinge of misogyny behind all that,” says Millett, referencing the endless debates about Del Rey’s creative autonomy. “She realized very quickly, being at the center of that storm, you’re not going to win.” So she went deeper into her own weird world, and somewhere between her third and fourth records — the haunted jazz of 2015’s Honeymoon and the new-age folk of 2017’s Lust for Life — it felt like people finally got it. Or, at least, the people who were meant to get it got it. After all, Del Rey never had intended to make popular music, even if she now headlines festivals. It just kind of happened that way: a poet disguised as a pop star.

In many ways, Norman Fucking Rockwell feels like a fulfillment of the groundwork she has spent nearly a decade laying: She is now free to be Lana, no questions asked. “People want to embrace her lack of formula,” says Millett. “And now she can do whatever the hell she wants because people have accepted that, well, she’s brilliant.” Though she has sold out arenas in the past, the North American leg of her upcoming fall tour has her playing amphitheaters and outdoor venues that feel especially suited to the style of her music. And if her songs feel lighter, it’s because Del Rey does, too.

“I mean, God, I have never taken a shortcut — and I think that’s going to stop now,” she says, feet kicked up on the coffee table. “It hasn’t really served me well to go by every instinct. It’s the longer, more arduous road. But it does get you to the point where, when everyone is just copying each other, you’re like, ‘I know myself well enough that I don’t want to go to that foam rave in a crop top.’ ”

Although that does sound kind of dope, now that she’s thinking about it. “Yeah, never mind,” she says, laughing. “Google ‘nearest foam rave.’ ”

IN PERSON, DEL REY’S VIBE isn’t noir heroine or folk troubadour so much as friend from college who now lives in the suburbs. Her jean shorts, white T-shirt and gray cardigan could’ve easily been snatched off a mannequin at the nearest American Eagle Outfitters. A couple of times in our conversation, she lets out a “Gee whiz!” like a side character in a Popeye cartoon. Between the tour announcements and Gucci campaign shoots, her Instagram consists mostly of screenshot poetry and Easter brunch pics with her girlfriends. For the most distinctive popular songwriter of the past decade, she appears disarmingly basic.

“Oh, I am! I’m actually only that,” agrees Del Rey, eyes gleaming. “I’ve got a more eccentric side when it comes to the muse of writing, but I feel very much that writing is not my thing: I’m writing’s thing. When the writing has got me, I’m on its schedule. But when it leaves me alone, I’m just at Starbucks, talking shit all day.” Starting in 2011, when her nearly drumless, practically hookless breakthrough single “Video Games” blew up, the suddenly polarizing singer found it hard to move through the real world unbothered. But something changed a few years back; she’s not sure if she chilled out or if everyone else did. In any case, she’s happiest among the people, whether that’s lingering in Silverlake coffee shops or dipping out to Newport to rollerblade. “I’ve got my ear to the ground,” she says with a conspiratorial wink. “Actually, that’s my main goal.”

Somehow this only makes Del Rey weirder and cooler: the high priestess of sad pop who now smiles on album covers and posts Instagram stories inviting you to check out her homegirl’s fitness event in Hermosa Beach. You could feel the shift on Lust for Life, which enlisted everyone from A$AP Rocky to Stevie Nicks and traded the interiority of her early songwriting for anthems about women’s rights and the state of the world. She even seemed down to play the pop game a bit, though by her own rules: She worked with superproducer Max Martin on the title track, even as it quoted ’60s girl groups and cast R&B juggernaut The Weeknd as the long-lost Beach Boy.

Among those entering Del Rey’s creative fold on Norman Fucking Rockwell is Jack Antonoff, the four-time Grammy Award-winning producer who has become a go-to collaborator on synth-pop heavy hitters for the likes of Lorde and Taylor Swift. Enlisting Big Pop’s most in-demand producer doesn’t seem like a very Lana Del Rey move, and she knows it.

“I wasn’t in the mood to write,” she admits. “He wanted me to meet him in some random diner, and I was like, ‘You already worked with everyone else; I don’t know where there’s room for me.’ ” But when Antonoff played her 10 minutes of weird, atmospheric riffs, Del Rey could immediately picture her new album: “A folk record with a little surf twist.” In the end, Antonoff wound up co-producing almost the whole project, alongside longtime collaborator Rick Nowels and Del Rey herself.

Most of Norman Fucking Rockwell follows similar whims — or, as Del Rey puts it, “Divine timing.” Though artists like Billie Eilish and Ariana Grande have taken the creation of pop music to a more informal and impulsive place — Eilish recorded her debut album with her producer brother Finneas O’Connell in his childhood bedroom, while Grande wrote most of Thank U, Next in a weeklong blitz — Del Rey’s approach seems even more casual. “She doesn’t follow any kind of plan beyond what she feels is right, and it works every time,” says Millett.

That includes the cover of Sublime’s sleazy 1996 hit “Doin’ Time” — essentially the “Summertime Sadness” of the Long Beach, Calif., ska band’s discography — recorded out of pure fandom, yet somehow a perfect complement to the album’s beach bum vibe. “We were involved in executive-producing the [recent] Sublime documentary because their catalog is through Interscope, and Lana was talking about how big a fan she was,” says Janick. As it happened, her earliest producer was David Kahne, who had worked with Sublime in the ’90s. “So she ended up doing that cover, which turned out amazing. But then she felt like it fit the aesthetic of the album.”

The album title was just something she came up with when she randomly harmonized the name of the American illustrator while recording “Venice Bitch,” though she recognizes that she and Rockwell — an idealist whose cozy depictions of Boy Scouts and Thanksgiving turkeys graced magazine covers for half the 20th century — have both explored big questions about the American dream in their work. And then there’s the artwork she has been using for the record’s singles: bizarrely casual iPhone photos that feel a bit tossed-off because, well, they are.

“Every time my managers write me, ‘Album art?,’ I’m just like, send!” she cackles, pantomiming taking a selfie. “And they just send the middle-finger emoji back to me.”

THE WEEK OF OUR INTERVIEW, JUST a few days after two consecutive mass shootings took place in El Paso, Texas, and Dayton, Ohio, Del Rey recorded a song called “Looking for America.” She hadn’t planned to write it, but the shootings affected her on a “cellular level,” as she phrased it in an Instagram preview, which also included a sharp disclaimer: “Now I know I’m not a politician and I’m not trying to be so excuse me for having an opinion.” Over Antonoff’s acoustic guitar, she sings softly, “I’m still looking for my own version of America/One without the gun, where the flag can freely fly.”

The quiet protest song is a move you can hardly imagine her making five years ago. It wasn’t until Lust for Life, she acknowledges, that she felt brave enough to have an overt political opinion. “It is quite a critical world, where people are like, ‘Stick to singing!’ ” she says. “They don’t say that to everyone, but I heard that a lot.”

With that sense of permission has come a kind of peace and an acceptance that evaded Del Rey in her early career; she has never indulged her critics, but it’s nice to be understood. “Sometimes with women, there was so much criticism if you weren’t just one way that was easily metabolized and decipherable — you were a crazy person,” she marvels, noting a shift in the perception of female pop stars that happened only recently (one catalyzed in large part by her own career arc). She recently recorded a song for the soundtrack to the upcoming Charlie’s Angels reboot with Grande and Miley Cyrus — stars who also have faced criticism for the ways in which they don’t conform to the expectations of women in the spotlight.

Her newest songs are some of her most personal, particularly the album closer, “hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have — but i have it” (a title only Del Rey could pull off). It also hovers anxiously on the margins of the #MeToo movement, though never in such broad strokes. “It was staggered with references from living in Hollywood and seeing so many things that didn’t look right to me, things that I never thought I’d have permission to talk about, because everyone knew and no one ever said anything,” she says in a tangle of sentences as knotty as the lyrics themselves. “The culture only changed in the last two years as to whether people would believe you. And I’ve been in this business now for 15 years!

“So I was writing a song to myself.” She exhales deeply, sinking back into the sofa. “Hope truly is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have, because I know so much.” Del Rey pauses. “But I have it.”

Del Rey has been thinking a lot about hope and faith lately. She has been going to church every Wednesday and Sunday with a group of her girlfriends; they get coffee beforehand, and it has become something to look forward to. She likes the idea of a network of people you can talk to about wanting something bigger — just another extension of her fondness for pondering the mysteries of the universe. (Fittingly, she studied metaphysics and philosophy at Fordham University in New York.) “I genuinely think the thing that has transformed my life the most is knowing that there’s magic in the concept of two heads are better than one,” she says.

That has crept into her music, too. Del Rey says she hadn’t realized until recently how isolating her creative process had been for so long. These days, studio sessions feel more like cozy jam sessions, according to Laura Sisk, the Grammy-winning engineer who worked closely on the record with Del Rey and Antonoff. “Something I love about Norman is how much of the energy of the room we’re able to record,” says Sisk. “We often don’t use a vocal booth, so we’re sitting in a room together recording, usually right after the song was written and the feeling is still heavy in the room.”

Even the cover of Norman Fucking Rockwell, Del Rey says, was designed to cultivate a sense of community. For the first time in her discography, she’s not pictured by herself. She’s on a boat at sea, one arm wrapped around actor Duke Nicholson (a family friend and grandson of Jack), the other reaching out to pull the viewer aboard. As she explains the idea, Del Rey rifles through her sizable mental rolodex of quotations and offers this one from Humphrey Bogart by way of Ernest Hemingway: “ ‘The sea is the last free place on earth.’ ” A place, in other words, where you can finally just be you.

Del Rey says her album covers tend to be self-fulfilling prophecies — whatever energy she puts out tends to shape the next chapter of her life. She’s eager to see how this one, with its open arms and sense of adventure, manifests itself. “We’re going somewhere,” she says with a mysterious grin. “I don’t know where we’re going. But wherever it is, my feet are going to be on the ground.”

Originally published on billboard.com with the headline Lana Del Rey on Finding Her Voice and Following Her Muse: ‘I Have Never Taken a Shortcut’, and in the August 24, 2019 issue of Billboard with the headline Lana Del Rey Speaks Her Mind.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Billboard, December 21, 2017

The pop prophet, Lana Del Rey's, 2017 album, 'Lust For Life,' became her second Billboard 200 No. 1 album.

When mysterious, melancholy Lana Del Rey announced her fifth album with a beaming smile and a lead single simply called ‘Love,’ it seemed change was in the wind. Coming on the heels of 2015’s darkly introspective Honeymoon, a Billboard 200 No. 2 album, fans theorized that this would be Del Rey’s ‘happy album.’ Instead, as the 2016 election worked its way into her writing process, Del Rey, 32, metabolized the surrounding chaos into a work both engaged and transportive. “I like the Leonard Cohen quote: ‘There’s a crack in everything/That’s how the light gets in,'” Del Rey says. “I feel like this is the year where we’re seeing a lot of cracks — the cracks that have been there forever. But the blessing in [that] is that we get to shine light on the problems that have been in society for a long time, and hopefully fix them. That makes me feel excited, actually.” Along with her longtime collaborator, producer Rick Nowels, Del Rey wove ’60s folk with stripped-down hip-hop percussion and, for the first time in her career, welcomed a thoughtfully eclectic guest roster (including Stevie Nicks, The Weeknd and Playboi Carti). For Del Rey, one of few album-oriented pop artists these days, tapping into the mood of the moment paid off: Lead single ‘Love’ spent two weeks atop the Rock Digital Song Sales chart, and Lust for Life became Del Rey’s second Billboard 200 No. 1.

Lana Del Rey: Honeymoon was like a vanity project, just for me. With this one, I was thinking about things broader than just my relationships, which was nice for me, and probably nice for my fans, too — a bit of a reprieve. John [Janick] and the guys I work with loved ‘Love’ and ‘Lust for Life,’ so those were really the only two singles we thought about. I’m saying ‘singles’ with air quotes — for us, that just means the song’s going to get a video.

John Janick (chairman/CEO, Interscope Geffen A&M): Any project I’ve ever been involved in with her, she knows where she’s going with everything: the idea, the look, the feel. And she had this far in advance [for Lust for Life].

Del Rey: I think a good word [to describe Lust for Life‘s shift in mood] would be present — less from the outside looking in, and a more integrated perspective lyrically. I started writing the darker songs first: ‘Heroine,’ ‘Get Free,’ ’13 Beaches.’ So I had to get through all my complaining [laughs]. Then, once I got to be cathartic in that way, I thought, ‘All right, now I want to invite my friends in.” Obviously, the election was happening halfway through my writing process, and I ended up writing “When the World Was at War We Kept Dancing” and “God Bless America – And All the Beautiful Women in It.” All these little things culminated in a body of work.

Janick: I remember going in the studio one day and her playing probably half of what’s on the album now. Hearing ‘Love’ for the first time — it was one of those goose-bump moments.

Del Rey: It started as ‘Young and in Love,’ but I didn’t really like that title; that wasn’t the point of the song. Then I worked with Sean Lennon. The Lennon legacy is so tied in to that one word. So I thought, ‘You know what? I just want to go for it.’ The whole record is pointing its little nose in that direction. And I liked that it was pretty literal — it felt nice and comfortable to not necessarily have layers to all of the singles. That one and “Lust for Life” were kind of just about having fun.

Ben Mawson (manager): Most important to Lana is that her albums are a cohesive body of work. Her writing process is very natural, without directly thinking about radio or singles.

Del Rey: I wanted to see if [Lust for Life] would be heard for what it was really saying. Overall, from what I read, it was interpreted correctly. Which is a good sign for me: It means I’m not seeing things one way and the culture is seeing things the other way. That means you need to check yourself, and I don’t want to check myself. I want to stay in the flow. Maybe I needed a lot of time to be me, all to myself, and just be weird. Who knows why timing works out the way it does? But I really like this record. I think if this was the first record some people heard from me, I’d be really proud of that.

Originally published on billboard.com with the headline 2017 No. 1s: How Lana Del Rey Wrote Her Most Politically-Engaged Album Yet.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Elle UK, June 2017

The world has changed and so has Lana Del Rey, whose new album, Lust For Life, is her most outward-looking yet. But as she swaps her melancholic persona for raw authenticity, how does she maintain her magic? We meet Lana on a hot afternoon in ‘Hollyweird’ (as she calls it), and discover the voice of a generation that’s ready to sing.

Does Lana Del Rey really live right inside the middle of the ‘H’ of the Hollywood sign, and spend most of her nights perched high above the chaos that swirls within the city of angels below, as the teaser for her new album, Lust For Life, suggests?

Or does she rent a house in LA’s Santa Monica or Silver Lake or someplace else she’s not about to divulge, in case, having taken a cryptic February tweet of hers literally, a posse of her 6.3 million well-meaning Twitter followers show up on her doorstep with the ‘magic ingredients’ to cast spells on President Trump?

Does she really only dip her toes into ‘the muck and the mires of the city every now and then’, as she says in the album’s trailer? Or does she ‘go out quite a lot actually’, as she tells me when we meet, and spend her nights having fun with a tight crew of mainly musician mates, dancing at house parties, going to gigs and occasionally wrestling the microphone from her male friends to sing Hotel California in karaoke bars? In this post-truth world, it feels pedantic to care too much either way.

The ‘real’ Lana Del Rey is a 31-year-old woman called Elizabeth Woolridge Grant, born in Lake Placid, New York. She’s close to her younger sister – Chuck, a photographer – but less so to her parents, Patricia and Robert, and her little brother, Charlie. They’re a family of individual she tells me: ‘It was natural that we all went down our own separate paths, and we’ve all stayed there.’

We are sitting next to each other on a sofa in the Los Angeles recording studio where she has been creating her most musically accomplished work yet – the aforementioned album, Lust For Life, is destined to be the sound of this summer. Lana is fully present, smart, funny, engaging and refreshingly able to laugh at herself. She wears jeans and a vintage shirt, and she talks softly but with a compelling certainty. I like her all the more for the fact that no amount of everydayness negates the magic she exudes as a performer. To her fans, Lana exists in flickering Super 8; the Manic Pixie Dream Girl who comes with no baggage or bad days, but is here only for you in a Valencia-filtered fantasy. She’s an idea of a woman who didn’t grow up anywhere, but emerged fully formed from the elevator at the Chateau Marmont Hotel. She’s a montage of Americana, finished with a flick of black eyeliner.

Both the reality and the fantasy of Lana Del Rey make up a fully formed, albeit exceptional, human being. But, as Lana tells me, inhabiting these two worlds hasn’t always been easy: ‘I know that if I had more of a persona then [when she released her breakthrough hit, Video Games, on the internet in 2011] I have less of one now. I think it comes down to getting a little older. Maybe I needed a stronger look or something to lean on [back then]. But it wouldn’t really be hard for me today to play a mega-show in jeans without rehearsing and still feel like I was coming from the right place.’

I suggest that the scrutiny Lana was put under by the media for having a melancholic persona was unfair. Everyone, to some degree, presents a different side of themselves at work, right? Plus, she’s hardly the first artist to change her name or cultivate a distinctive stage look. Yet, countless conspiracy theories called into question her appearance, talent, and family background around the time her second album, Born To Die, was released in 2012 – but Lana is remarkably understanding.

‘Looking back now, I get a little more of what they’re saying. When I was in the mix of a lot of reviews and critiques, I was kind of like, “What? I do my hair and my make-up just like everyone else for my pictures and my show, and yes my songs are melancholic, but so are whoever else’s.” So to see a couple of other female artists not get criticised made me think, “What is it about me?”’

In hindsight, she says, she understands what the criticism and intrigue over her authenticity as an artist was about: ‘I think it comes down to energy, I really do. It wasn’t overtly saying “I’m unhappy” or “I’m struggling” in my music, but I think maybe people did catch that and they were saying, “If you’re going to put music like that out there, you better fess up to it.” But I don’t think I really knew how felt. Then when things got a little bigger with the music I was still figuring out what was important to me.’

I get the sense that she’s done a lot off figuring out in the past few years, like many of us now in our early thirties probably have done too. The difference with Lana, of course, is that all her experimentation, mistakes and regrets were fodder for public consumption. I mention that sinking feeling I get when I stumble across an old diary or a Facebook post that feels like it was from a totally different place to where I am now. I ask if she can relate.

‘That applies to me,’ she says. ‘I have cringy moments. Certain things I have said and songs I have done, but mostly the ones that were leaked… I mean, they’re not my finest.’

She’s talking about her computer being hacked in 2010, when hundreds of unfinished songs were released online, without her permission. It was a horrible invasion of her privacy, and it leads on to a discussion about vulnerability – though interestingly, it’s not a word she says she has ever applied to herself.

I ask her what performing on stage takes from her emotionally and what she gains from it, her amphitheatre shows usually hold up to 24,000 people at capacity. She fixes me with a not-at-all vulnerable look and says, ‘Well, it depends on the day. If I’m having a good day, it still takes a lot, but so much of it is physical. I try to take strength and sing from my core, so I have to actually feel good and get a lot of sleep. Of course, it also helps if my personal life is even; when you’re on stage for an hour and 40 minutes, you think while you’re singing. I don’t like my in-between thoughts to be restless, or worrisome, so I can focus on the crowd.’

After a show, she feels reflective and needs time to process it. ‘It’s not like you do it and it didn’t happen; it’s a real experience. I know rock bands who say they fucking love it – that they would [perform] every night and wouldn’t do anything else. I don’t know if it’s as emotional an experience for them [as it is for me].’

Back to that need to feel good and have an ‘even’ personal life, Lana has lived in both New York and London, but says Los Angeles is starting to feel like home, and that’s a big part of what’s making her happy right now. ‘I’m growing my roots and meeting a lot of other friends, so I feel a little more settled.’ In her downtime, she loves swimming in the ocean. ‘I have a friend called Ron who likes to swim with me. So every now and then, we find an empty beach, jump in and swim the length of the coast, from one side of the cove to the other.’

Her friends are her family, says Lana, and that’s why she can’t accept anything less than total honesty and trust from them: ‘The fact that l know that now everything a lot clearer. What’s interesting is how unsafe we [could] feel among each other [if we weren’t] able to express how we really feel. It’s hard knowing that if you tell someone exactly how you feel, like if you’re happy or unhappy, that could be the end of the relationship because they don’t feel the same way.’

We speak about the crews you pick up through your life and agree that, in your thirties, you are much better at surrounding yourself with people who make you feel good. ‘When you’re in your twenties, you let this cast of characters [into your life], especially if you’re in the arts,’ she says. ‘It didn’t matter what they stood for or what they thought was important. But as the years went on, there were things that I saw in people that I didn’t like.’

Lana is enjoying being part of a music scene in LA where her friends include photographer Emma Tillman (also the wife of singer-songwriter Father John Misty), Zach Dawes, who has played bass with the British super-group The Last Shadow Puppets, and musicians Jonathan Wilson and Cam Avery. They play music together, which is not something she’s done with friends before. The first time she had dinner with the whole gang, she thought: ‘Wow, this is great.’ She tells me: ‘Feeling part of something is definitely a nice feeling.’ The downside to rolling with a crew of fellow musicians is that karaoke becomes a competitive sport. ‘If I am with the guys, they’re always on the microphone and sometimes it’s hard to grab it from them. Everyone pretends that it doesn’t matter, but you can tell there are moments in the choruses when people are really singing.’

We laugh and I feel pleased that I’m meeting Lana at a time in her life when, as she puts it: ‘All the tough things that I have been through – that I’ve drawn upon [in my work] – don’t exist for me any more. Not all my romantic relationships were bad, but some of them challenged me in a way that I didn’t want to be challenged, and I am happy I don’t have to do that now.’

I don’t mean to rain on her parade, but I ask whether she feels that when she admits she’s happy that something bad might be just around the corner? ‘Yes, sometimes. I have a little bit of that feel that it’s a human thing to be superstitious. Sometimes I say to my friends, “I don’t want to jinx it.” Or if l’m on the phone I’m like, “I’m so excited about this”, and then waiting for that phone call the next day… but there’s no such thing as jinxing it. Just let go.’

The key to happiness, she says, is to ask yourself what will make you happy: ‘I try not to do anything that won’t [make me happy], even if it’s a show in a place that doesn’t suit me. It’s so simple; I always used to ask myself that, but never listened to the answer because I knew I was probably going to do it anyway. If someone really needed me to do something, I would probably be like, “OK!”’

I wonder if we put too much emphasis on being happy and that in itself causes stress and anxiety, but Lana passionately disagrees: ‘No! I think happiness is the ultimate life goal. I think it’s the only thing that’s important. There are no mechanisms in place for routes to happiness, that’s the whole fucking problem. I think people are unhappy in school – the education structure has been the same for a long time and kids are still not satisfied all over the world with their educational experience. And you don’t have enough conversations when you’re young about what makes for a satisfying mutual relationship. Those collective life experiences – your youth, your academic education and your education about business, marriage or relationship goals they all lead up to happiness. I think the emphasis is on the wrong things, and it has been for a long time.’

Lana tells me she’s more socially engaged than ever; her fifth and latest album is a mix of personal introspection and outward-looking anthems, such as God Bless America, in which she sings: ‘God bless America and all the beautiful women in it.’ She says that, with this record, she was striving for a feeling that we’re all in this together: ‘I think it would be weird to be making a record during the past 18 months and not comment on how [the political landscape] was making me or the people I know feel, which is not good. It would be really difficult if my views didn’t line up with a lot of what people were saying.’

We discuss being constantly bombarded with news and other people’s views in our hyper-connected world, and I ask how she reconciles her personal wellbeing with the collective feeling that we are all going to hell in a handcart.

‘I think it’s a balance, I really do. You are so fortunate if you have good health and high energy because it takes a lot to be a responsible human. Responsible to yourself, responsible to others, and to know when not to get too deep into the wormhole of news, but still be politically in-the-know and not be disconnected. In my life, it’s like walking on a tightrope. I read the news, but I won’t read it before bed; I won’t read it when I get up and won’t read it between my recording sessions. I have windows of time where I check in and catch up with everyone, but I keep my sacred things sacred.’

And as for her paean to America’s women? ‘I wrote God Bless America before the Women’s Marches sprung up, but I could tell they were going to happen. As soon as the election was over, I knew that was going happen. People were way more vocal and more active on social media and in real life, so I realised a lot of women were saying out loud that they needed support and they were nervous about some of the bills that might get passed that would directly affect them. So yes, it’s a direct response in anticipation of what I thought would happen, and what did happen.’

Predicting the Women’s Marches must have taken a seriously smart, social instinct, or some kind of sorcery straight from one of her otherworldly Lust For Life trailers. Whatever you think, you can’t deny that the pulse of the zeitgeist beats throughout Lana’s new album, from her pop collaboration with The Weeknd on the title track to the moody duet with John Lennon’s son, Sean, and my personal favourite, Yosemite, a beautiful song about the way relationships change over time.

After she plays me this track in the very room in which it was recorded, I can’t help but ask what Lana is like as a girlfriend. ‘I’m amazing. I’m the best,’ she jokes, before clarifying, ‘I actually am the best girlfriend because I only get into a relationship if I’m really excited about it. I’m unconditionally understanding, very loving and like to be with that person for a lot of the time.’ After hearing Yosemite’s refrain that she’s no longer a candle in the wind, which to mean she’s found a steadier light in her life, I wonder whether what she looks for in a relationship has also changed? ‘For me, the dream is to have a little bit of the edge, the sexiness, the magnetism, the camaraderie, be on the same page and all that stuff, but without the fallout that comes from a person who is really selfish and puts only their needs first, which is like a lot of frontmen if we’re talking about musicians!’ (Lana has previously dated Barrie-James O’Neill, the Scottish lead singer of alt-rock band Kassidy.) ‘I’m going to write a book one day called, “The curse of the frontman and why you should always date the bassist.”’

Lana smiles, takes a sip of her iced coffee, and says: ‘I guess have a little bit of a fantasy that really great relationships, friendships, and romances can stand the test of time. Even though each person in the relationship or the group changes, they don’t change in ways that would make the relationship come to an end. The chorus [of Yosemite] is about doing things for fun, for free, and doing them for the right reasons. It’s about having artistic integrity; not doing things because you think they would be big, but because the message is something that’s important. And then, it’s about just being with someone because you really can’t see not having them in your life, not because it would be “beneficial” to you to be in their company. It’s that concept of just being in a relationship for 100% the right reasons. Being a good person, basically.’

Lana Del Rey is mercurial – just when you think you’ve got her she slips through your fingers like quicksilver – but in that hot second, I think I see her clearly: an artist who is rising from the ambiguity of youth and emerging into a woman with an authentic vision for her life and her art. Yes, that might one day fade like the barely there ‘Chateau Marmont’ tattoo on her left wrist, but right now her power is in sharp, unfiltered focus.

Originally published in the June 2017 issue of Elle UK with the headline California Dreaming.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Billboard, October 22, 2015

After reinventing herself as a cryptic Hollywood femme fatale, the 30-year-old singer has fought off the haters to become a proper, if unusual, pop star. In a rare interview, she opens up about coping with anxiety, her new-age mentors and how she almost played Sharon Tate on the big screen: “I could have become an American nightmare.”

LANA DEL REY AND I WERE FIRST introduced at an Architectural Digest pimped manse off Pacific Coast Highway during a party thrown, weirdly enough, for Werner Herzog and his bud, the physicist Lawrence Krauss. (Del Rey, 30, has spoken before of her interest in science and philosophy.) On that night, she wore an unformfitting Polo shirt dress with a personal-old-fave vibe. In deglamorized “Stars Without Makeup” mode, she was unpretentious and softly gregarious, like a doe-eyed, underdressed newcomer to the Town. I was at the same table, and she caught me staring off at the horizon. Del Rey was sardonically attuned, nudging her boyfriend, the Italian photographer-director Francesco Carrozzinni, to have a look at the cliché: Old Brooding Man. Her warmth took me out of myself.

Lana Del Rey’s fourth album, Honeymoon, debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard 200 in September, but when I asked if she planned to go on the road to promote it, she shook her head. “I do everything backwards. It already happened — I’m actually done with the world tour I started four years ago, when I needed to be out there. I really needed to be out there singing.”

That exodus was partly born of the need to heal following a 2012 appearance on Saturday Night Live that elicited a slaughter-of-the-lamb storm of derision over the then up-and-coming star’s seemingly zoned-out amateurism. She was tarred as a poseur — part Edie Sedgwick, part Valley of the Dolls, a Never Will Be Ready for Primetime Player — but it turned out that Del Rey was only at the end of Act One in an all-American A Star Is Born passion play of celebrity crucifixion and resurrection.

Born Lizzy Grant in Lake Placid, N.Y., Del Rey moved to Manhattan at 18. “For seven years I wrote sexy songs about love,” she says. “That was the most joyous time of my life.” The screen that so many gossipy personas have been projected onto (rich preppy, suicidal anti-feminist, morbid dilettante) has instead transformed into a nearly religious dashboard icon of ghostly seduction. She’s a global phenomenon, part of the national conversation and cultural soundscape. Nielsen Music puts her total U.S. album sales at 2.5 million, and her videos have been viewed hundreds of millions of times. Del Rey is now a few years into her return from the desert, having arrived on a mystery train of Santa Ana winds, existential dread and “soft ice cream” (to quote her song “Salvatore”) that is uniquely her own.

I meet her for the interview at a John Lautner house she rents in Los Angeles. Lautner was a seminal Southern California architect, and Del Rey says her choice of lodging was deliberate. She production-designs her life. She greets me in the drive — inquisitive, friendly and aware. For a moment, she looks like Elvis and Priscilla, all in one. The hair is old-school Clairol dark, the eyes siren green, the auburn ’do the most done thing about her.

“You’d love my dad,” she says. She was just on the phone with him; her parents are visiting. He’s a realtor, and Mom’s an English teacher whose passion is reading history books. Del Rey lives here with her younger sister, Caroline Grant, a photographer who goes by Chuck. (Del Rey tells me that her sister was so shocked by the force of the fans’ emotions during concerts that she doesn’t take pictures of them anymore.)

“My dad’s that guy with perfect Hawaiian shirts and matching shorts,” says Del Rey. “The other day he said, ‘We should see about getting you a vintage Rolls.’ I said, ‘Um, it’s a little attention-grabbing.’ And he said, ‘Uh, yeah.’ ”

What do you do with yourself now that you have nothing on your schedule?

I go for long walks, long drives. I’ll get in the car and drive the streets, feeling for places. I go to Big Sur. I love Big Sur, but it has gotten so touristy. I went to the General Store, and there were hordes. On a Monday! But I’m drawn there. Sometimes I go to write. I’ve been thinking it might be time to do a longer video, a 40-minute video. I was watching The Sandpiper, and I was working on something kind of based on that.

Have you thought of writing something for yourself? Shooting down the paparazzi helicopter in the video for “High by the Beach” was your idea, no?

Yeah, it was. I’d like to write a book one day. But you need a beginning, a middle and an end! I can deal with four minutes — but I’m not so sure about a book.

Your song “God Knows I Tried” fits somewhere between The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” I’m thinking of Cohen because of that line “Even though it all went wrong.”

I love Leonard — because he’s all about women. Women and God.

Does it all go wrong?

It’s hard for me sometimes to think about going on when I know we’re going to die. Something happened in the last three years, with my panic…

I had read that you were prone to that.

It got worse. But I’ve always been prone to it. I remember being — I was, I think, 4 years old — and I’d just seen a show on TV where the person was killed. And I turned to my parents and said, “Are we all going to die?” They said “Yes,” and I was totally distraught! I broke down in tears and said, “We have to move!”

How do you cope?

I saw a therapist — three times. But I’m really most comfortable sitting in that chair in the studio, writing or singing.

The panic won’t last forever.

I don’t think so, but … sometimes you just want to be able to enjoy the view. I think I’m really like my mother, in the sense that I make small lists. To calm myself down. I reward myself. You know, “If I finish this, then I’ll do that” — I’ll go for a walk on the beach or swim in the ocean. I go for swims and am actually shocked I do that. Because one thing I’m terrified of is sharks.

Do you think having a child would chill you out? Do you want to have kids?

I’ve thought about it. Really thought about it lately because I’ve just turned 30. I’d love having daughters. But I don’t think it’d be a good idea to have kids with someone who wasn’t … on the same page.

Someone who…

Who isn’t exactly — like me! (Laughs.) Though maybe it’s best to have kids with someone who’s … normal.

When was the last time you got trashed by a love affair?

The last one — before the boyfriend I’m with now — was pretty bad. It wasn’t good to be in it, but it wasn’t good to be out of it, either. He was like a twin. Not a facsimile twin, but a real twin.

So maybe finding the same person doesn’t work. Are relationships hard for you?

For someone like me — and it’s not a codependent thing — I just like having someone there. I’ve been alone, and that’s fine. But I like to come home and have someone there. You know, to say, “Oh, he’s here. And this other thing (Mimes a table.) is there. And this (Mimes setting down an object on the table.) is there. (Laughs.) I’m very methodical. I have to be. I’m like that in the studio too. Mixing and mastering can take four more months after we’re done — three to mix and one to master. I like having a plan. Though I do leave spaces for ad-libbing in the studio when I write.

Do you mind if I write all this? Because I don’t want to piss off Francesco.

Oh, he’s going to read this! But he’ll have things to say anyway. He’s very … aggressive. (Smiles.) And besides, I didn’t say he wasn’t just like me.

There’s something weirdly shamanistic about your work. You channel Los Angeles in ways I haven’t seen from anyone, at least not in a long while. Places now extinct, streets and feelings that you have no right to be able to evoke because of your age. And it’s so unlikely that you’re the one to be the oracle that way. But it’s for real.

I know. I know that. I love that word, “shamanistic.” I read energy; I always have. One of the books I love — aside from [Kenneth Anger’s] Hollywood Babylon — is The Autobiography of a Yogi. And Wayne Dyer … I was so upset when he died! [Dyer, part Buddhist, part New Thought motivational speaker, was best-known for his book Your Erroneous Zones. He died in August.] He gave me so much over the last 15 years. I went to see a clairvoyant. She asked me to write down four things on a card before I came in, things I might be thinking about, and she nailed all four. I asked about the man I was seeing — that one, before the one now. She said, “I don’t really like to go there, but … I just don’t see him present.” I went, “Ugh.” She’s seeing the future and doesn’t see him present. Oh, no!

Are you aware of your effect on men?

I’ve only recently become aware of the heterosexual males who are into my music. I remember when I was 16, I had a boyfriend. I think he was… 25? I thought that was the best thing. He had an F-150 pickup and let me drive it one time. I was so high up! I panicked and was worried I might kill someone — run over a nun or something. I started to shake. I was screaming and crying. I saw him looking over, and he was smiling. He said, “I love that you’re out of control.” He saw how vulnerable I was, how afraid, and he loved that. The balance shifted from there. I had the upper hand — until then.

Do you want to be in the movies?

Well… I’m open to it all. James Franco asked me to be in three films that were going to be directed by a Spanish director, and I was hesitant. I think he heard my hesitance and got scared. Someone wanted me to be Sharon Tate. I thought, “That’s so right.” At that time, there were three Manson movies being talked about, but none were ever made. So maybe that was the answer.

Have you ever been the “voice of reason” for a friend in crisis?

I have — I can be. It’s easier to do that sometimes … for someone who’s half-checked out.

Meaning you.

Yes. (Pauses.) You know, I was living in Hancock Park once and thought about a movie idea. I was renting this house whose high walls had been grandfathered in, so of course I kept making them taller and taller. And I had an idea about writing something about a woman living there, a singer losing her mind. She has this Nest-like security system installed, cameras everywhere. The only people she saw were people who work on the grounds: construction people and gardeners. One day she hears the gardener humming this song she wrote. She panics and thinks, “Oh, my God. Was I humming that out loud or just to myself? And if it was aloud, wasn’t it at 4 in the morning? Did that mean he was outside my window?” Then a storm comes, one of those L.A. storms, and the power goes out except to the cameras, which are on a different source. And the pool has been empty for months because of the drought. And she goes outside in the middle of the night because she hears something — and trips over the gardener’s hoe and falls into the empty pool and dies facedown like William Holden at the end of Sunset Boulevard.

For me, one of the most interesting things about you and your story — and of course your work — is that you broke through. That it has turned out well.

I think about it, and I’m so grateful. I am aware that it could easily not have happened. That I could have become … an American nightmare. I see her — Lana — I listen to her and watch her, and I’m … protective.

Let’s end with Big Sur. Do you think your interest is by way of your kinship with the Beats? Your enthrallment with Kerouac?

Big Sur challenges me to surrender. What draws me is … the curves. I’m really drawn to the curves.

Originally published on billboard.com, and in the October 31, 2015 issue of Billboard with the headline An Inconvenient Woman.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Complex, August 2014

Lana Del Rey knows what you think about her. And she’s learned to live with it.

Satin gowns, fast cars, pills, and parties are the lifeblood of American glamour. Red carpets, unbridled opulence, and the kind of elegance that looks amazing in high-contrast black-and-white photographs are its marrow. Icons like Sinatra, the Kennedys, Elvis, and Marilyn Monroe appeared to be beacons of the good life, but behind the velvet rope was a darker, less-than-pristine reality: one rife with gossip, addiction, betrayal, and violence. In 2014, no artist embraces both that world’s intoxicating glow and frayed seams more acutely than Lana Del Rey.

On her 2012 breakthrough, Born to Die, Del Rey cast herself as a tragic pop star from a bygone era. Her music videos were epics: on Born to Die’s title track, she begins perched regally on a throne flanked by Bengal tigers, and ends with model Bradley Soileau carrying her bloody body from the fiery wreckage of a 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1; in “National Anthem,” she plays Jackie O to A$AP Rocky’s JFK. Where many of her contemporaries reveled in little-known subcultures and outsider artists, Del Rey went for icons. “Marilyn’s my mother/Elvis is my daddy/Jesus is my bestest friend,” she wrote in the introduction to her Anthony Mandler-directed short film Tropico, released last year. Del Rey’s 20th Century nostalgia (cloaked in beats provided by Emile Haynie, Kid Cudi’s original producer, and Kanye West-collaborator Jeff Bhasker, among others) proved immensely successful. Only four albums released in 2012 outsold Born to Die, which went platinum in the U.S. and charted in 11 countries. Del Rey sold more than 12 million singles globally, received two Grammy nods (Best Pop Vocal Album, for her EP Paradise; Best Song Written for Visual Media, for “Young and Beautiful”), and sold out a North American tour.

Her arrival also attracted visceral criticism. The New York Times review of Born to Die savaged her aesthetic and artistic “pose.” Pitchfork likened her debut to a “faked orgasm.” The media seemed fixated on anything but the album’s actual music: the supposedly incongruous early recording career under her real name, the life cycle of the internet hype machine that birthed her, or the aggressively ridiculed Saturday Night Live performance that made her a household name.

In 2012, Del Rey moved from Brooklyn to L.A., and one year later began work on the full-length follow-up to Born to Die. Released in June and produced by the Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach, Ultraviolence eschews the home-run pop melodies of Born to Die for stripped-down piano intros and reverb-heavy guitar solos that give her soulful, low-register vocals space to shine. Lyrically, though, Del Rey’s stance remains uncompromising, with titles like “Money, Power, Glory” and “Fucked My Way Up to the Top” explicitly referencing her image, and taking aim at her myriad detractors. And some of her old critics have changed their tune. In its review, the New York Times called the criticisms levelled against Born to Die “inaccurate,” and lauded Del Rey’s “retro sophistication” and “guileless candor;” Pitchfork called her “a pop music original,” adding “there are not nearly enough of those around.” Despite modest radio play for the lead single “West Coast,” the album debuted No. 1 on Billboard, selling 182,000 copies in its first week (more than twice as many as Born to Die), a testament to her growing fanbase.

Sitting on the roof of Brooklyn’s Wythe Hotel for our interview, the 27-year-old “pop star” is dressed more like a suburban teenager, in light wash low-rise jeans and a tight, white, short-sleeved polo with lavender horizontal stripes. She has perfect posture and crosses her legs neatly. There’s a grace to the way she chain-smokes Parliaments and says “fuck” when she chips one of her pointed purple acrylic nails. If it’s all a show, well, it’s a good one. The cracks in the veneer of glamour humanize her and are one of the reasons she’s been able to mix self-serious writing about true love and death with provocative, pseudo-comical lines like the infamous “My pussy tastes like Pepsi Cola.”

For the next 60 minutes, Del Rey muses about sexual gamesmanship in the music industry, Marilyn, Elvis, and Jesus, and the jagged reaction to her emergence on the pop scene. And words. Del Rey is a writer—not just the subject, but also the director of her own drama. The only mark of her wealth is a gaudy diamond-encrusted choker with a cross pendant hanging just above her sternum. Its sparkle evokes the cartoonish shine of costume jewelry, though it’s every bit as real as she has turned out to be.

When you’re writing, what comes first? Song titles, melodies, music?

Well it took me a long time to write the album as it’s listed. I was writing a lot since the last record came out, but for some reason, 70% of what I was writing didn’t feel right for me. So if I’m lucky enough to have an experience that really impacts me, it comes with a verse and a melody. From there I ad lib it. But they come together, the melody and the words come together. But it happens rarely for me.

What do you mean?

Actually having that happen, where it just sort of comes. I remember with “Carmen,” I was out really late and walking to the tempo of my own rhythm, and then I just started singing, “Carmen, Carmen doesn’t have a problem lying to herself cause her liquor’s top shelf.” And it was an easy cadence. The whole thing just came, and I think I was in a really good place then, so it was like things...it was really easy to channel.

What defines being in a good place?

Feeling really happy and just circumstantially like nothing’s going wrong, which becomes more difficult but that’s only my experience. I think a lot of people think the whole thing is really great. Making Brooklyn my home base for the last two and a half weeks has really helped me out, like I’ve actually started thinking conceptually that I have this addition, an addition to this record that could come really easily. That hasn't happened in a long time. Not since I wrote that Paradise addition to Born to Die, which I really loved.

Did you miss Brooklyn?

I missed Brooklyn. I missed the people.

How are the people here different?

They’re not different. I’m a little different. The vibe is the same. I met some guys from here last week I had never met before, and they were just really easygoing. All artist types—writing during the day and hanging out at bars at night. I miss that, I like that. I haven't really found that in California yet. I relocated there because my record got a little bit bigger, but I didn’t really find a music scene that I was a part of. There was something happening—there was kind of a reemerging Laurel Canyon sound. Jonathan Wilson, Father John Misty, and I really liked those guys. I felt like maybe I had something in common with them and I slipped right into that atmosphere really well.

Let’s talk Ultraviolence. The crop of the photo on the album cover is similar to the crop of your first two album covers.

I liked that, I wanted the continuity. I didn’t have that for the album cover at the time and I wanted it to be a continuation of the story. I did like the idea of it being in black and white so that there was, literally and figuratively more to be revealed. Even color-wise.

You wanted a continuation in aesthetic for this album cover, is that something that was important to you musically for Ultraviolence as well?

Yeah. Not being misleading in terms of your personal aesthetic, like your psyche coming through design-wise and musically—I like continuity.

You have this way of exacting your creative vision through so many different parts of your art—music videos, lyrics, tone and the melody, style of dress. Are those things that you plan ahead when you think about an album? Is it a concept that grows from one idea?

I don’t know. I was in college at Fordham when I was 18. I was living between Brooklyn and New Jersey and I was working with this guy who was more famous than anyone I had met at the time, this producer David Kahne. I had that record—you know they shelved it for two years—and I had all this time to think about what was really important to me and what I actually wanted to do if I had the opportunity to do what I wanted. I knew that I wanted to make life easy for myself in the way that I would always be living in a world I constructed and whatever felt true to me, regardless of however that appeared to other people. That definitely extended to song titles, whether I shot in black and white, hair color, things like that. It’s not really something that I planned ahead. I had a sense that I wanted the world I lived in to be really personalized to what I liked.

When I hear the words “ultra” and “violence,” I think about WorldStarHipHop. What does the phrase mean to you?

That’s funny. I feel connected to two emotions—aggression and softness. I like that luxe sound of the word “ultra” and the mean sound of the word “violence” together. I like that two worlds can live in one.

What’s the relationship between violence and love?

I like a physical love. I like a hands-on love. [Pauses.] How can I say this without getting into too much trouble? I like a tangible, passionate love. For me, if it isn’t physical, I’m not interested. Everything I do feels so organized: touring, playing a show night after night with a couple months in between to make a record, and being in charge of all of it—mixing, mastering. Sometimes I meet people with a lot of fire and energy. Mentally, maybe we’re not that similar. Telepathically, we’re not on that same wavelength. If there’s a physicality and a chemistry, that ends up winning for me every time because it’s the opposite of what I have every day.

Who’s the last person you met who made you feel like that?

Dan Auerbach, for better or for worse.

Do you think a “guilty pleasure” is a real thing?

Yes, but I don’t have many of them musically. I have tons of them in life.

Do tell.

Well, smoking is one of them. Sugar, coffee. I must have 13 cups a day. It’s a shame about the health consequences because a lot of great things happen over coffee and a cigarette. A lot of great songs were written.

Why did you choose to cover Nina Simone’s “The Other Woman” on Ultraviolence?

[Sings, “The other woman has time to manicure her nails, the other woman is perfect where her rival fails.”] I relate to being the person who people come to for “such a change from the old routine,” but not being the main thing. I had a long-term relationship for seven years with someone who was the head of a label and I felt like I was that change of routine. I was always waiting to become the person who his kids came home to, and it never happened. Obviously I had to seek other relationships, and I felt like that became a pattern. I was younger—24, 25 at the time. I had known what I wanted to do for a long time. I had been serious about music since high school, and I stopped drinking when I was 18. By 24, I was a pretty serious person. I thought I was a writer, and I was a singer. I thought I knew what I wanted my path to be. The people I was drawn to were already established, but they were probably looking for someone more on their level, age-wise. But I love the idea of wrapping up the record with a reference.

Many artists use obscure references to try to prove individuality and originality. Why do you go for icons like Marilyn, Elvis, and Jesus?

When I had put out only “Blue Jeans” and “Video Games,” I caught a lot of grief from journalists asking me why I was being so literal and obvious. I referenced things like Marilyn without trying to be accessible. I have a personal relationship with my perception of who Marilyn was. She was the kind of female who was really warm and giving. I like that type of girl who’s friendly and easy. I was always looking for girls like that as friends. I felt like I knew her in that way. And Jesus—I mean, being raised Catholic, it was just a way of life. Spirituality and religion were strong. I was in Catholic school until I was 13. Like a lot of other people, I think foundationally I was hymn inspired—musical hymns, not Him, Jesus. [Laughs.]

How did you meet Dan?

I met Dan at The Riviera strip club in Queens. He was with Tom Elmhirst, who’s an amazing mixer, and I was with Emile Haynie. Emile asked if I wanted to go hang out with them and I had a lot of fun for the first time in a long time. Dan had been mixing Ray Lamontagne’s record with Tom down at Electric Lady studios. And he left by the time I was there—Lee Foster gave me Electric Lady all by myself for three weeks.

Wow.

It was incredible. By the end of the three weeks I thought I was done. Then I met Dan and he said, “Why don’t we just go to Nashville and see what happens?” I went because it sounded like a good time. I didn’t want the party to end. I flew there with Lee and we rented a farm for six weeks. We drove to Dan’s studio on 8th Street every day and I loved it. He was what I was looking for, because he was a facilitator. He said “yes” a lot. If I was like, “I only want to sing this through once,” that was normal to him. It was natural that someone would like what they got on the first try. He was cool like that. [Lights a Parliament with her plastic purple lighter.]

You’ve been smoking cigarettes on stage a lot.

Dude, I have to. I can’t get through it.

Is it an addiction?

Yeah. I’m a chain-smoker.

How long have you been smoking?

Since I was 17. It’s crazy. That’s why I try to play mostly outdoor festivals. [Laughs.] Because 45 minutes into the set, when you’ve still got 45 more minutes to go, you need to smoke.

That’s a long time to be standing in front of people.

It’s a long time. If people come and see you at a show for 80 minutes they literally know everything about you. With 5,000 people coming, they film you so the people in the back can see you on the screens. There isn’t a moment when you can turn around and gather yourself. Everything you feel, everything you’re emoting, is just there. I have toured so much more than I thought I would; I thought I would be more of a studio singer. But I toured Europe for two years.

There was a time after Paradise came out when you said you weren’t sure that you were going to make any more music. What changed?

A year after Born to Die was released, a lot of people asked me what the new record would sound like and when it was going to come out. I said, “I don’t know if there will be another record.” I didn’t have songs that I felt were good or personal enough. Dan Auerbach changed things for me, and I have no idea why. He was just interested in me. That made me feel like maybe what I was doing was interesting. He gave me some confidence back. He listened to songs that were folk songs at the time, and he thought that maybe, with some revision, they could be more dynamic. I started to see a bigger picture. For me, if I don’t have a concept it’s not worth writing a whole album. I don’t like it if there’s no story.

There are a few different ways to take your song “Fucked My Way Up to the Top.” Is it about people not wanting to give you credit for your success? Or is it about fucking people to get to the top?

It’s commentary, like, “I know what you think of me,” and I’m alluding to that. You know, I have slept with a lot of guys in the industry, but none of them helped me get my record deals. Which is annoying.

What’s the worst relationship advice you’ve received?

That love doesn’t come easily and that relationships are supposed to be a struggle. Everything else is so hard; hopefully love is the one thing that is actually fun.

That reminds me of an Eartha Kitt interview clip you once posted. Asked about love and compromise, she says, “What is there to compromise? I fall in love with myself and I want someone to share it with me.”

She was so right-on with that. It’s nice to have a fiery relationship that enhances everything you do, that doesn’t feel like part of it is not what you want.

What is the most valuable thing that you’ve destroyed in life?

In terms of money?

It doesn’t have to be, but that works.

I don’t know. I don’t think money has had an influence on things I’ve sabotaged. But there are things.

What’s something you’ve destroyed that’s actually valuable to you?

Probably the relationship I’ve been in for the last three years. Definitely demolished that through tons of depression and insecurity. Now it’s just an untenable relationship, impossible because of my emotional instability.

Sometimes people do their best writing when fucked up.

And I am a little fucked up. This whole experience has fucked me up.

Fucked you up how?

I don’t know. It’s been hard. I was in a good place when I wrote my first record because I wrote it for fun, but then, I felt like everything that went with the record was heavy. I was also trying to deal with stuff with my family. The world was heavy for a couple years. That’s why I liked Dan: He was casual. It didn’t have to be so serious.

Speaking of non-serious, what restaurant has the best red sauce in the world?

That’s a good question. I go to the same place in Los Angeles all the time, Ago on Melrose. I order the same thing every time, penne alla vodka.

What were you listening to when you were writing?

I love jazz. I love Chet Baker’s documentary Let’s Get Lost, which influenced my video for “West Coast,” which Bruce Weber shot. I love Nina Simone and Billie Holiday like everybody else. I have a ’70s playlist that I listen to daily. A lot of Bob Seger, who I love. He’s probably the main person I listen to, and also the Eagles and Chris Isaak, Dennis Wilson and Brian Wilson. I like Echo and the Bunnymen, “Killing Moon”—just like single tracks.

Do you have a guilty pleasure song on that playlist?

No, they’re all pretty good.

You experienced a level of scrutiny that was very personal. How has that affected you?

The good thing about catching so much grief from critics is that you literally do not fucking care. It put me in a mind frame where I expect things not to go right, because they generally don’t. But it’s not a pessimistic place. The music is always good, in my opinion. That’s what I expect now from my career, that the music is going to be great and the reaction’s going to be fucked up.

Why do you think they reacted so vehemently to what you were making?

If they thought it was supposed to be categorized as pop music, that was the first mistake. It wasn’t made to be popular. It was more of a psychological music endeavor. I wasn’t out to make fun, verse-chorus-verse-chorus songs. I was unraveling my history through music. People were confused as to why I would stand on stage and just sing and not perform. To me, performing is just channeling and emoting through inflection, cadence, phrasing. That’s pretty different from what’s popular, so I think maybe they thought it shouldn’t be popular. What do you think?

It felt like you were being critiqued not as an artist or even a pop musician, but as a celebutante. You presented such a comprehensive, seemingly calculated project—the videos, the styling, the references, etc.—that people felt compelled to pick it apart.

It’s funny, because my process was natural. I remember making “Video Games,” and I did my makeup as I did it every day. I put my hair up like I did. I was wearing a dress and filming myself. I didn’t think that the juxtaposition with this found footage that I had taken from people’s honeymoons on Super 8 would get the reaction it did. The reaction to everything six years prior to that, from the day when YouTube was actually born, was a non-reaction. People just didn’t care.

Do you feel vindicated?

I feel a sense of relief, but I don’t feel vindicated.

How come?

I don’t feel like things have gone well. It’s not the way I would have chosen them to go. So it’s not like I feel everything’s turned around and it’s great.

You’ve got quite a few gold records, and a handful of platinum ones.

Yeah, but I still didn’t find that community of people I was looking for, like the way Bob Dylan found his friends, or the respect of being a writer. Because that gold and platinum stuff, it doesn’t mean as much if you’re walking down the street and you can hear people saying things about you. That doesn’t even out.

Originally published on complex.com with the headline Against the Grain.

Outtakes

Lana Del Rey’s third album, Honeymoon, is out today, just 15 months after her sophomore release, Ultraviolence, solidified her place in iconic American history. This past year she has proven her staying power both as one of the most beloved pop singers in the world,and one of its most candid speakers. When she talks to the press, an activity that is becoming increasingly rare, she seems to inevitably ignite conversation. Notable examples this past year include her comments about dying young and being disinterested in feminism—both of which Kim Gordon responded to with some choice words in her memoir—as well as meeting inventor/mogul/future-enthusiast Elon Musk.

When I interviewed her for the cover of Complex’s August/September 2014 Issue, we touched on the media. But Lana was less concerned with the chatter, and more concerned with finding a group of collaborators who respect her artistry and perspective as a writer, “like the way Bob Dylan found his friends.” From the outside, it looks like she is closer than she’s ever been, working with her sister, photographer Chuck Grant, for the Honeymoon promo art, teaming up with “Shades of Cool” director Jake Nava for the literally explosive “High by the Beach” music video, contributing to the debut solo album of close friend Emile Haynie, who executive produced Born to Die, and finding new artistic synergies with artists like the Weeknd.

The more we learn about Lana, the more complete a portrait of a living, breathing human being we are able to piece together. In celebration of the release of her third album, we revisit some of the unpublished quotes from our interview that took place May 12, 2014, on the roof of Brooklyn’s Wythe Hotel. Read them below.

On Doing “Ride” With Rick Rubin

I was writing that Paradise edition, and originally was writing it as a follow-up record, but nobody wanted to release something eight months later. It ended up being a re-release-slash-second edition, and I loved this demo I did with Justin Parker, who I wrote a lot of things with like “Video Games” and “Born to Die,” “National Anthem,” and Ferdy Unger-Hamilton at EMI hated the song. So I think him and Rick had been talking and Rick was like, “What’s going on with Lana? Can she come over, I hear she’s in L.A.” I think I had been over to say “Hi” to him first. Just to say “​hi.” We took a walk in Santa Monica—he takes the same walking route every morning. Then a few weeks later I brought him “Ride,” and he really liked it. Working with him was good, I was still in my old car, my old Mercedes that was barely making it down that hour-and-a-half drive down to Shangri-La Studios in Malibu, and it was really good. He has this sprawling lawn with all these bunnies and palm trees. He was very relaxed. It was good.

On Being a Fan of Rufus Wainwright

I love him. I had this terrible experience with Rufus Wainwright actually. I was like, a long time fan of him and his sister. It’s actually why I signed with my initial label, 5 Points Records, because the boss there, David, was great friends with Loudon, their father. I thought that was amazing. Anyways, I had been waiting to meet him for a long time, and I was singing at the Montreux Jazz Festival, I think two years ago. I had a really bad show. I couldn’t hear anything on stage because my in-ears stopped working. I was having a moment backstage and Rufus came to say “Hi,” and I was trying to compliment him in between stifled sobs. I think he thought I was insane.

On Being a Fan of Martha Wainwright

She’s one of the few females I totally relate to. I love the way she uses her voice in a way that kind of explains things. The words aren’t the only things that tell a story, it’s her inflections too. That’s why I really like Cat Power. She’s my biggest female inspiration in a way. I signed with my first manager because he was managing Martha six years ago, Peter Leak, and I always hoped I’d meet her. Hers was one of the few shows I saw at the Bowery Ballroom.

On the Most Important Person She Ever Shared a Cigarette With

Probably my manager, who is still my manager, Ben Mawson, over the last four years. He doesn’t smoke anymore, but he used to smoke more than me and drink 12 beers a day. I met him, he told me to just come to London and I did. I just went and met him. I think they were at Shoreditch House, so we went on the roof and had a cigarette. He felt like I was really worried about everything, and he told me that he had a plan and that everything was going to go OK and not to worry. He was very aggressive, and he was such a believer. So probably with Ben, I guess.

On Making Art Vs. Satisfying the Major Label Machine

I came in in a unique position in that “Video Games” had so many views, and that was the reason why Jimmy Iovine at Interscope and Ferdy Unger-Hamilton at Polydor had called me on that day and wanted to revisit the record and hear it again.

So I got signed on great terms because the discussions we were having were that it was always going to be my way. I liked coming from this DIY place where if I had a single that they really felt like they wanted to put money behind or promote—I liked knowing it was an option that I could make my own video at home for it, like I did with “Video Games.” Eventually I tired of that, graduated to working with other people. But in that way I was in a really good place after the record was done with its cycle.

I think the label was half-and-half on this record [Ultraviolence] because there were a lot of jazz undertones and West Coast references. I think they were happy that I was happy with it and that I made it. I don’t think they felt like there were singles that could work at radio. And I kind of felt that, because I have such a good relationship with Jimmy and Ferdy. I’ve been working, “working” [makes air quotes], singing, for years. So the people I’m closest with are like my product manager and the video commissioner, because they’re really good girls. The A&R guys—Larry Jackson and John, if I go out at night I probably go out with them. We’re pretty flexible with each other, but it always come down to differences. For example, the bonus tracks on this record I didn’t feel like had any relation to the atmosphere of the record itself. I think iTunes was like, “You would have trouble promoting a record if it didn’t have a deluxe edition,” so, there’s stuff like that.

On the Worst Relationship Advice She Ever Received

That love doesn’t come easily and that relationships are supposed to be a struggle. I think that everything else is so hard that hopefully love is the one thing that actually is the fun part of it. [I] have had some very practical, down-to-earth advice about love that I choose not to follow. It’s the same with money too. You’re supposed to work your whole life, work really hard for everything you get. I think maybe a better strategy is to just fall in love with what you do and hope that whatever you make from that monetarily is enough to have an easy life.

Originally published on complex.com on September 18, 2015, with the headline Lana Del Rey Talks Idolizing Cat Power, Looking Up to the Wainwrights, and Ignoring Bad Relationship Advice.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Rolling Stone, July 16, 2014

The vamp of constant sorrow talks about love and death — then tries to wiggle out of her cover story.

SHE GOES TO a dark place, in the end, and won’t come out of it. “I’m not sure if they should run this story,” Lana Del Rey will say, sprawled out on a soft brown couch in tiny denim cutoffs and a white V-neck tee, blowing pensive little gum bubbles. She has, by this point, spent a good seven hours talking with me. At times, it even seemed like it was going well.

“I feel like maybe we should wait until there’s something good to talk about,” she continues, in an airy tone that turns pleading. “You know? I just wish you could write about something else. There has to be someone else to be the cover story. Like, there has to be. Anybody.”

Maybe it shouldn’t have been a shock, landing here. Del Rey’s brand of pop stardom is self-thwarting, ambivalent, precarious: At her clouded core, beneath the considerable glamour, she is more Cat Power or Kurt Cobain than Rihanna or Katy Perry, complete with a mysterious, Kurt-like stomach ailment that plagues her on tour. And then there’s the tattoo on the side of her right hand, just below the pinkie, inked in neat black cursive: TRUST NO ONE. (On the same spot on the other hand: PARADISE.)

Still, a day earlier, it all feels different. On a cloudless, offensively hot mid-June afternoon in New York, the release day for Del Rey’s second major-label album, Ultraviolence, she answers the green wooden door of the Greenwich Village town house where she’s staying. “I’m Lana, nice to see you,” she says, offering a soft handshake and a big, white, hopeful smile, one that instantly suggests everything you think you know about her is wrong: that you’ve read too much into the consecutive placement of songs called “Sad Girl” and “Pretty When You Cry” on the new album; that you’ve taken certain recent interview quotes (mainly, “I wish I was dead already,” which earned her a Twitter scolding from Frances Bean Cobain) too seriously; that it’s a mistake to assume her aloof stage manner has anything to do with her actual personality.

Her laugh, fizzy and girlish, is coming easily. She’s all but giddy over having her album out, uncompromising, spooky, guitar-laden, hitless thing that it is: “It’s what I wanted.” Today’s V-neck tee is powder blue, nearly matching the self-applied pastel polish on her longish nails, over pale, strategically shredded jeans, cuffed just below the calves, that are familiar from another magazine’s photo shoot. She’s wearing false eyelashes but not much noticeable makeup. Del Rey is four days away from her 29th birthday (for reasons she can’t explain, she’s usually reported to be a year younger), but looks, at the moment, like a college junior home for the summer.

She seems so carefree – bubbly, even – that within 10 minutes, it seems safe to break the ice: “So, on a scale of one to 10, how much do you wish you were dead right now?”

Her big brownish-green eyes widen even further. Then she lets out a delicate snort of amusement. “Ten being dead?” she says. “You’re funny! Today is a good day.” Today she chooses life? “Yeah, today I choose life.” So, like a one? “10. 10!” she says, in a daffy singsong, not unlike Diane Keaton murmuring “la di da” in Annie Hall. “Seven. 12!” She throws back her head and laughs, possibly beginning to enjoy herself.

But when it comes to Lana Del Rey, who can tell anything for sure? She’s a baffling bundle of contradictory signifiers, a mystery that 10,000 tortured think pieces have failed to solve. David Nichtern, who signed her to his small indie label when she was still in college, saw her as “the outer aspect of Marilyn Monroe with the inner aspect of Leonard Cohen”: She may look a bit like Nico, but she’s her own Lou Reed. She’s nervous and self-conscious onstage, but fearless in her lyrics (“My pussy tastes like Pepsi-Cola”; “I was an angel looking to get fucked hard”). Her consistently viral videos are id-infested pageants of creepy-nostalgic Americana, good-girl/bad-girl dichotomies and the occasional make-out sesh with an old dude. Just try to figure out what’s going on in her 2012 clip for “National Anthem,” where she plays both Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy, dares to riff on the Zapruder footage, and casts rapper A$AP Rocky as JFK.

She’s a pop superstar with hardly any actual radio hits in the U.S., just a remix of her song “Summertime Sadness” that she never even heard before its release. And, perhaps more than any other pop star of this century, she’s been misunderstood, even hated. She was the subject of a savage indie-nerd backlash – a pre-lash, really – before most of America had ever heard of her. (Among other complaints, music bloggers felt somehow duped when her online hit “Video Games” led to a near-instant major-label deal.) Her shaky, slightly dead-eyed Saturday Night Live debut was treated like a national emergency, inspiring weeks of debate, including Brian Williams playing music critic (he was not a fan). She had her change of name from Lizzy Grant presented as evidence of deception rather than showbiz-as-usual. She had to deny surgically enhancing her lips’ poutiness (up close, for what it’s worth, they look pretty much like lips).

Released in the wake of the SNL performance, her 2012 debut on Interscope Records, Born to Die, got skeptical reviews. The songs, and her mannered, multilayered vocals, seemed to be drowning in lush, trip-hop-y production. But with the help of strong, cinematic new tracks on the bonus EP Paradise, it all turned around: The album sold more than 1 million copies in the U.S. (and more than 7 million worldwide); her Great Gatsby soundtrack single, “Young and Beautiful,” went platinum. Kanye West, who takes matters of taste seriously, enlisted her to play his wedding to Kim Kardashian. “It was beautiful, just being there,” Del Rey says. “They seemed very happy.” Earlier, over lunch, West had told her “he really liked where I was coming from, visually and sonically.”

Del Rey isn’t inclined to celebrate any of this stuff, however. “It doesn’t feel like success,” she says. “Because with everything that could have felt like something really sweet, there’s always been something out of the periphery of my world, beyond my control, to kind of disrupt whatever was happening. I’ve never felt like, ‘Oh, this is great.’ ”

The town house Del Rey is staying in belongs to someone she calls “a friend”: 31-year-old Francesco Carrozzini, a dashing Italian photographer who’s shot her for various European magazines. He obviously does well for himself – “better than us,” Del Rey jokes, as she shows me around. His four-story house is a seriously amazing bit of Manhattan real estate, a movie-star-worthy bachelor pad, its dark wood walls covered with art photos and his shots of celebrities like Keith Richards. The house is on the same block where Bob Dylan moved with his family in 1969; Anna Wintour lives nearby, as does Baz Luhrmann.

On the second-floor coffee table, near a Serge Gainsbourg box set, there’s a book called The Boudoir Bible. “No shame,” Del Rey says with a grin. She’s sitting on the brown couch, smoking Carrozzini’s American Spirit cigarettes in her languid way, below a huge black-and-white photo of a bunch of slim, naked people piled on top of one another. The midday sun is blazing through an open window, and her brown hair and fair skin are glowing in its haze – an Instagram filter or cinematographer couldn’t do better. “I quit sometimes,” she says, of the cigarettes. “And then stop quitting.” She smokes onstage, too – it’s pure craving, not an image thing. “I find, sometimes, halfway through the set, I definitely need to have a cigarette.”

Within a few days, she’ll be photographed nuzzling with Carrozzini in Europe. But for now, she says, she’s single. Starting in December or so, Del Rey began a protracted breakup with Barrie-James O’Neill, her boyfriend of three years. He’s a songwriter, which allowed her to live out some Dylan/Joan Baez fantasies (she’s partial to Baez’s paean to that romance, “Diamonds and Rust,” even quoting it on “Ultraviolence”). “It’s all been hard,” Del Rey says. “Yeah, my life is just feeling really heavy on my shoulders, and his own neuroses just getting the best of him, I think, just made it untenable. Which is sad, because it was truly circumstantial, the reasons for us not being together.”

Ultraviolence feels, at times, like a breakup album, though Del Rey says all of the songs were actually about previous relationships. Either way, it answers a lot of questions about her, even as it raises some new ones. If she were the corporate puppet or calculated fraud some of her detractors imagined her to be, this is not an album she would ever make. The main producer was Black Keys frontman Dan Auerbach, who’s gifted at summoning vintagey atmosphere and Morricone-ish grandeur, but is in little danger of being confused with Dr. Luke or Max Martin. They recorded much of it live, with his Nashville crew of rock musicians playing while Del Rey sang into a $100 handheld microphone, her vocals newly raw, jazzy and powerful. There are a bunch of guitar solos. But not one track seems even vaguely suited for pop radio.

Even before Auerbach got involved, Del Rey knew that she wanted something very different this time around. “This record was, ‘I’m going to do it my way,’ ” says her friend Lee Foster, who runs Electric Lady Studios and co-produced some of the album there. Foster told her that Bruce Springsteen had followed up Born in the U.S.A. with the stark Nebraska (Foster had the order reversed, but close enough). “We talked about taking that stance, like Springsteen shifting gears and saying, ‘I’m gonna do exactly what you don’t expect me to do.’ “

Auerbach ran into Del Rey at Electric Lady, where he was mixing Ray LaMontagne’s new LP. “Honestly, we both benefited from really not knowing anything about each other,” he says. After she played him some of the demos she was working on, he became a fan, lobbying to produce her. But he was taken aback by the major-label hassles he experienced – Del Rey is signed to two of them, Interscope and the U.K.’s Polydor. “There was a lot of bullshit I’m not used to,” Auerbach says. “The label says, ‘We’re not going to give you the budget to extend this session unless we hear something.’ And we send them the rough mix and they fucking hate it and they hate the way it’s mixed. And it’s like, ‘Thanks, asshole.’

“The story I got told,” he continues, “is that they played it for her label person and they said, ‘We’re not putting out this record that you and Dan made unless you meet with the Adele producer.’ And she said, ‘Fine, whatever.’ And she was late to the meeting, so while they were waiting, the label guy played what we recorded for the Adele producer and he said, ‘This is amazing – I wouldn’t do anything to change this.’ And here’s the kicker: Then all of a sudden, the label guy said, ‘Well, yeah, I think it’s great, too.’ ”

“I had heard about some back and forth regarding the music,” says Interscope chief John Janick. “But Lana knows her vision and her audience, and it’s up to us to follow her lead.” Del Rey acknowledges a six-week period this past spring when things were in limbo: “I mean, I think there were people they wanted me to work with,” she says. “I don’t know who they were. When I said I was ready, they were like, ‘Are you sure?’ ” She laughs. ” ‘Because I feel like you could go further.’ “

“On this album, in my opinion, you didn’t want her to try to do something,” says Janick’s predecessor at Interscope, Jimmy Iovine. “I felt she hit a bull’s-eye. Everybody’s saying to me, ‘We need a single,’ calling me from Europe. I said, ‘You don’t need anything.’ It’s a very coherent body of work, and I thought any other conversation was a distraction. Lana, more than most, reminds me of artists that I produced” – he’s thinking of Patti Smith and Stevie Nicks in particular – “which is slightly different than the majority of artists that are on Interscope. Because you can’t find those artists every day. She’s one of the rare things that come along in life, which is a lyricist. You know how rare they are, today, outside rap?”

Del Rey’s co-manager, Ben Mawson, warned her that she’d have to answer for some of the new album’s lyrics, particularly the title track, which quotes the old girl-group line “He hit me and it felt like a kiss,” then adds, “He hurt me but it felt like true love,” just in case she hadn’t made her point. She’s vague on whether this theme might be autobiographical: “I guess I would say, like, I’m definitely drawn to people with a strong physicality,” she says with a shrug, “with more of a dominant personality.”

She’s not worried about any message those lines might send. “It’s not meant to be popular,” she says, sitting in the backyard of the town house, which opens onto a shared garden, where Dylan had angered his neighbors decades ago by trying to put up a fence. She’s sipping hot coffee through a straw, a longstanding habit she acknowledges is both “weird” and “nerdy.” “It’s not pop music,” she says. “The only thing I have to do is whatever I want, and I want to write whatever I want. I just hope people don’t ask me about it. So I don’t feel a responsibility at all. I mean, I just don’t. I feel responsible in other ways, communitywise – to be a good citizen, abide by the law.”

But precisely how does she want the public to hear those lines? “I just don’t want them to hear it at all,” she says, pouting a little. “I’m very selfish. I make everything for me, kind of. I mean, every little thing, down to the guitar and the drums. It’s just for me. I want to hear it, I want to drive to it, I want to swim in the ocean to it. I want to think about it, and then I want to write something new after it. You know? It’s just … I don’t want them to hear it and think about it. It’s none of their business!”

But, um, isn’t she selling people this music? “I’m not selling the record,” she says. “I’m signed to a label who’s selling the record. I don’t need to make any money. I really could care less. But I do care about making music. I would do it either way. So that’s why it has to be on my terms.”

Del Rey has never been in therapy. “There’s nothing anyone could ever tell me that I don’t already know,” she says. “I know everything about myself. I know why I do what I do. All of my compulsions and interests and inspirations. I’m very in sync with that. It’s the other stuff that I don’t have any control over, just what’s going to happen on a daily basis. My interactions.”

So what drives her? “Now? Nothing,” she says. “I don’t have any drive anymore. But I enjoy making records. Before, I felt drive, but now it just feels like an interest. With the first record having received so much analysis, there’s no more room for ambition. It breaks that part down, just because you sort of know what to expect, and that nothing is going to work out the way you think anyway.”

She doesn’t want to conquer the world? “No, what I’d love to do is, Francesco has a bike downstairs,” she says. “I would love to take a motorcycle to Coney Island and have an amazing talk with you and jump in the water.” Somehow, this plan never comes up again.

Even as a small child, Elizabeth Woolridge Grant was, by her own recollection, “obstinate, contrary.” She was born in Manhattan to parents who both worked Mad Men-style jobs at the advertising giant Grey, but when she was one year old, they gave up those careers and moved to sleepy, upstate Lake Placid. Her dad would go on to start his own furniture company, get into real estate and then become a successful early investor in Web domain names. But Lizzy just wished they had stayed in the city. “It was really, really quiet,” says Del Rey, who has compared the town to Twin Peaks. “I was always waiting to get back to New York City. School was hard. The traditional educational system was not really working for me.”

At 14 or so, Lizzy started drinking and hanging out with older kids. The scenario, she recognizes with a laugh, was not unlike the harrowing movie Thirteen. “In small towns, you sort of grow up fast because there isn’t that much to do,” she says. “So you’re out with everybody else who’s already graduated, and that’s totally normal. But it just didn’t sit well with everyone in my family.”

“I’m a sad girl/I’m a bad girl,” she sings on her new album – but the sad part didn’t come until later. She “felt passionate” about drinking, sharing bottles of peach and cherry schnapps with her friends. “I felt like I had kind of arrived into my own life,” she says, her voice turning dreamy. “I felt free. Even though I loved leaving town, by the time I was about 15, I knew I was probably going to stay there and have a life there. I mean, I had a vision for myself, definitely, at that point. I didn’t see becoming a singer or anything. I just wanted to grow up and get married and have fun. Have my own life, my own place.” Her parents, meanwhile, wanted her to become a nurse.

Losing patience with her partying, they sent her away to Connecticut’s Kent School. The move failed to curtail her drinking, and she was miserable. Her father’s apparent success aside, she says she was on financial aid. “I was very quiet,” she says, “just figuring things out. I didn’t relate well with what was going on culturally.” She wasn’t into mean girls. “The ways people treated other people, I thought was kind of cruel. The high school mentality I didn’t really understand. I wasn’t really, like, snarky or bitchy.” In an early song called “Boarding School,” she mentions being part of a “pro-ana nation,” referring to anorexia, and sings, “Had to do drugs to stop the food cravings.” But she insists that’s fiction: “The mentality of the pro-ana community was just something that was interesting to me.”

A young English instructor introduced her to Allen Ginsberg, Walt Whitman and Vladimir Nabokov (she has tattoos of the latter two names on her forearm), plus Tupac, the Notorious B.I.G. and old movies like The Big Sleep. Lines in “Boarding School” and another unreleased track, “Prom Song,” led fans to question the precise nature of this relationship, but Del Rey says it was nothing inappropriate: “He was just my friend.”

She started to think that she might want to be a singer, but could hardly bring herself to say it out loud, especially to her family. “I just thought it was kind of a presumptuous thing to say, coming from a more traditional background. You wouldn’t say it unless you really meant it.”

The summer after her senior year, back in Lake Placid, she woke up sick and hung over one morning, and suddenly realized something important was missing. “I lost my car,” she says. “I couldn’t find it. And … I don’t know, I just lost it. And I was just really sick. It was just one of the many reasons why my life was unmanageable. I didn’t want to keep fucking up. And at that point, if I was going to keep going, I wanted to have something that I really wanted to do.”

She says she hasn’t had a drink or gotten high since that year, but won’t clarify whether she considers herself an alcoholic, or if she ever went to rehab. “It’s just you never really know what’s going to happen,” she says. “Things change every day.”

She had gotten into SUNY Geneseo, a college in New York’s state-university system, but decided not to go. She took the year off, heading to her aunt and uncle’s house on Long Island. She worked as a waitress, just as she’d done over various summers. “I loved it,” she says, though her mom told one of her label execs that she had been a truly awful waitress.

Her uncle taught her some guitar chords, and she started playing open mics in the city. Somewhere around that time, she read Anthony Scaduto’s pioneering Bob Dylan biography, which she saw as a “road map” toward becoming an artist.

The next fall, she enrolled at Fordham University in the Bronx, where she majored in philosophy but otherwise hardly participated in student life. She lived with boyfriends, crashed on couches. “I was writing, writing, for years,” she says. “Trying to figure out what I really wanted to say and why I was consumed with this passion for writing, where it came from. It kept me up all night. So I was waiting to see why. That was a really whole separate world.”

She’d ride the subway late at night, composing lyrics in her head. “There were these nights that I enjoyed so much, just staying up and writing songs.” She cites a sparse, Cat Power-ish tune called “Disco” (“I am my only god now,” she sings, cheerily) and “Trash Magic” (sample lyric: “Boy, you want to come to the motel, honey/ Boy, ya wanna hold me down, tell me that you love me?”): “I felt I was really capturing my life in song form, and it was such a pleasure. And that being my whole life, you know? And really being happy, because I was doing exactly what I loved.”

A Williamsburg, Brooklyn, songwriting competition in 2006 led her to 5 Points Records, a tiny label run by Nichtern, who had, years earlier, written the Maria Muldaur hit “Midnight at the Oasis.” “I knew immediately that she was gonna be a big star,” says Nichtern. “And she herself knew, and not just by chutzpah or bravado. On some level she knew this was what her karma was.”

Nichtern hooked her up with producer David Kahne, the guy behind Sublime and Sugar Ray hits, who recalls leading her to looped beats for the first time. Kahne was a well-connected industry veteran and she was an unknown kid, but he found her somewhat daunting. “She was mysterious,” Kahne says. “I was confused a lot of the time whether what I was doing was right or wrong, whether she liked it or didn’t. It felt, a lot of times, like everything could change all of a sudden.” Like, for instance, Lizzy’s name.

Lana Del Rey is, she says, the same person – the same artist, even – as Lizzy Grant. “There’s not, like, a schism between people,” she says. “It’s actually just a different name, and that’s sort of where it begins and ends. I just thought it was strange, being born into this geographic lock-down location, and a name that you didn’t choose, and going to school for fucking 23 years. It was just unfathomable to me. So I think in choosing that name, it was just more becoming who I was, you know? It wasn’t music-related. It was just part of my life.” The other possible name was Cherry Galore, she says, probably joking: “You’d be sitting here calling me ‘Cherry.’ ”

By the time Lizzy became Lana for good, 5 Points had already released an EP from the Kahne sessions under the name Lizz Grant – and iTunes had selected Lizzy as one of the best new artists of 2008. “As we’re putting the album together, she says something like, ‘I really want to change my name,’ ” recalls Nichtern, who had been taking Lizzy and her album around the industry. “If we’re making the movie, you’d see a spit take. We’d just gotten that far with Lizzy Grant.” But Del Rey had found new management, dyed her hair from blond to brown and was ready to move on. They ended up all but scrubbing the LP’s existence from the Internet, which made it look like they were trying to hide Del Rey’s past, contributing to conspiracy-mongering later on. “We didn’t want the old album to be available just as we were trying to launch a new thing,” says Mawson, her co-manager. “And if that created suspicion in the eyes of weirdos on the Internet, then fine.”

Del Rey went off to London for months of writing sessions, one of which yielded an elegiac ode to a boyfriend who liked to play World of Warcraft, though she knew simply calling it “Video Games” was a lot more poetic (“Sometimes a girl’s just gotta generalize”). She had started making videos using iMovie, mixing self-shot webcam segments and YouTube clips: “Just putting things together, building a little world.” She perfected the approach with “Video Games,” creating a career-launching viral video. Even as she faced legal action for appropriating footage, people accused her of not actually making the “Video Games” clip herself – The New Yorker, of all places, called it “allegedly homemade.” “I definitely wouldn’t say I did if I didn’t,” she says with a sigh, showing me the software on her MacBook, which has a badly cracked screen. “That would be weird.”

It’s a clairvoyant, appropriately enough, who gives the first hint that something will go wrong on the second day. “I was trying to think of shit we could do,” Del Rey says, greeting me again at the town house door. “The only thing I could think of is we could see a psychic together.” In any case, she needs cigarettes, so we head out into the June heat. She’s wearing cheap, gold-framed sunglasses with peach-colored lenses. “They’re so ugly,” she says, striding along Bleecker Street. “Rose-colored glasses. Just what the doctor ordered.”

Del Rey was raised Catholic, but she has a mystical bent. “I’m definitely a seeker,” she says. While she was waiting for the Kahne album to come out, she got involved with an “East Village guru” who “had an ability to see into the past and read into the future.” But she left his orbit after detecting something “sinister” about him.

We end up paying a visit to a storefront psychic next to a bodega, in a creepy, red-walled room. The mystic turns out to be an unexpectedly fresh-faced woman in a matching red sundress, who enforces strict rules about “energy.” Del Rey asks her to do our readings together, but the psychic demurs: “Can I talk to the young lady alone?” The outing is becoming comically pointless.

Del Rey is laughing as we return to the house, though maybe slightly irritated. “Fuck,” she says. “I should’ve thought that one out. I don’t think she had the gift. It’s always sort of a menacing vibe unless you go to somebody who’s, like, world-renowned.” The psychic told her that this is her year for love and happiness – Del Rey jokes that there’s still six months left. She’s amused to hear that the psychic told me that I’m spiritually sensitive: “She could probably tell that you thought she was being a fucking bitch.”

We go back to talking, with Del Rey blowing cigarette smoke out the window, into the light. We finally touch on Saturday Night Live, still a dangerous subject. The performance, she maintains, “wasn’t dynamic, but it was true to form.” But the reaction was agonizing. She felt music-business friends pulling away from her. “Everyone I knew suddenly wasn’t so sure about me,” she says. “They were like, ‘Maybe I don’t want to be associated with her – not a great reputation.’ ” Iovine says they simply “got caught speeding” with the early performance, and that he spent time in the studio afterward coaching Del Rey on using in-ear monitors.

I ask her about “Ride,” a song where she sings about feeling “fucking crazy” – not an isolated sentiment in her catalog. “Well, I feel fucking crazy,” she says. “But I don’t think I am. People make me feel crazy.” We talk a little about the “I wish I were dead” thing, which she blames on leading questions. “I find that most people I meet figure I kind of want to kill myself anyway,” she says. “So, it comes up every time.”

Then, really without warning, her mood shifts. It’s a powerful thing, palpable in the room, like a sudden mass of threatening clouds. Her eyes seem to turn a shade darker: Trust no one. I ask, perversely, about “Fucked My Way Up to the Top,” one of Ultraviolence‘s best songs, which attacks an unnamed imitator who didn’t have to go through the gauntlet Del Rey did. It may be about Lorde, who criticized Del Rey’s lyrics but has a not-dissimilar vocal style.

She just released the song yesterday, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. “Now you are annoying me,” she says, half-trying to sound like she’s kidding. She lights a cigarette, looking miserable.

We begin an agonizing, endless meta-conversation about our interview and her relationship with the press. “I find the nature of the questions difficult,” she says. ” ‘Cause it’s not like I’m a rock band and you’re asking how everything got made and what it’s like touring in arenas and what are the girls like. It’s about my father. It’s about my mental health. It’s fucking personal. And these questions all have negative inferences: It’s just like, ‘SNL. Do you actually want to kill yourself?’ … Maybe I’m sensitive. Do you think?”

That’s when she says she doesn’t want to be on the cover of Rolling Stone anymore. She also says, “What you write won’t matter” – meaning that nothing will change her detractors’ minds about her.

It goes on and on. “You hit all my more sensitive weaknesses, all my Achilles’ heels. You’re asking all the right questions. I just really don’t want to answer them.”

Every attempt to talk her off this rhetorical ledge seems to make it worse. Del Rey stands up, in a distinct “time to go” gesture.

“I definitely presented myself well, and that’s all I’ve ever done,” she says, walking me downstairs. “And that’s never really gotten me anywhere. I’m just uncomfortable, and it has nothing to do with you.”

Stepping out, I try to convince her that her crisis of confidence over the interview is no big deal. It is, again, the wrong thing to say.

“It’s not a crisis of confidence, it’s not,” she says, standing in the doorway. “I am confident.” Her eyes are ablaze with hurt and pride. “I am.” She says goodbye, and shuts the door.

Originally published on rollingstone.com with the headline Lana Del Rey: The Saddest, Baddest Diva in Rock, and in the July 31, 2014 issue of Rolling Stone with the headline Vamp of Constant Sorrow.

[lizzygrantarchives]

The Guardian, June 12, 2014

Lana Del Rey has been through the wringer since her breakthrough success led to a vicious backlash, which shows in the 'narco swing' of her brooding new album Ultraviolence – and the fact that she can't stop talking about dying.

"I wish I was dead already," Lana Del Rey says, catching me off guard. She has been talking about the heroes she and her boyfriend share – Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain among them – when I point out that what links them is death and ask if she sees an early death as glamorous. "I don't know. Ummm, yeah." And then the death wish.

Don't say that, I say instinctively.

"But I do."

You don't!

"I do! I don't want to have to keep doing this. But I am."

Do what? Make music?

"Everything. That's just how I feel. If it wasn't that way, then I wouldn't say it. I would be scared if I knew [death] was coming, but …"

We're in New Orleans, a city not known for peace and quiet. A couple of blocks from Lana Del Rey's hotel lies Bourbon Street, the scene of drunken rampages from morning till night. Head in the opposite direction and you can expect to be assaulted by the vibrant brass of the French Quarter's street jazz musicians. Even inside Del Rey's elegant suite there is carnage: suitcases half-exploded; bags of corn chips strewn across the floor. Even her laptop has been doused in tomato ketchup, temporarily thwarting our attempts to hear songs from her new album Ultraviolence. "Ewww," she says, baffled as to how a condiment could have found its way inside the power socket.

And yet when we move outside to sit on her balcony, the scene is transformed into complete calm. "This place is magical," she says, sparking up the first of many cigarettes. So serene is the setting, in fact, that it takes me by surprise when Del Rey begins to tell me how unhappy she is: that she doesn't enjoy being a pop star, that she feels constantly targeted by critics, that she doesn't want to be alive at all.

"Family members will come on the road with me and say: 'Wow, your life is just like a movie!'" she says at one point. "And I'm like: 'Yeah, a really fucked-up movie.'"

Throughout our hour-long conversation she keeps returning to dark themes. Telling her story – a remarkable one that involves homelessness, biker gangs and being caught in the eye of a media hurricane – also involves working out why a songwriter who has sold more than 7m copies of her last album, Born To Die seems so disillusioned with life.

Perhaps the logical place to start, then, is with the extraordinary reaction to Video Games, her breakthrough song in 2011. Arriving seemingly out of nowhere (although Del Rey had been posting her songs and homemade videos for some time), the video's Lynchian creepiness cast a spell on almost everyone who saw it, causing the song to go viral. Yet no sooner had the plaudits started rolling in (the Guardian voted it the best song of 2011) than Del Rey was placed under the intense scrutiny of endless blogposts and think pieces, with critics poring over her past for evidence of fakery: was her carefully studied aesthetic for real? Was she really just a major label puppet? Had her dad funded a previous bid for fame? Were her lips the result of plastic surgery? Was she really born as plain old Elizabeth Grant rather than emerging from the womb fully formed as the popstar Lana Del Rey?

I ask how long she got to enjoy the success of Video Games before the backlash arrived and she looks surprised. "I never felt any of the enjoyment," she says. "It was all bad, all of it."

Del Rey says she's not scared to put another record out because she "knows what to expect this time", but during the two-and-a-half years since Born to Die came out, she has often dismissed the idea of a follow-up because she'd "already said everything I wanted to say". So what changed?

"I mean, I still feel that way," she says. "But with this album I felt less like I had to chronicle my journeys and more like I could just recount snippets in my recent past that felt exhilarating to me."

From the handful of songs I get to hear at the hotel, it's safe to say the new material has plenty to get the bloggers worked up about again. Sad Girl, for instance, talks about how "being a mistress on the side, might not appeal to fools like you".

She laughs when I ask where the inspiration came from: "A good question. I mean … I had different relationships with men, with people, where they were sort of wrong relationships, but still beautiful to me."

By wrong does she mean being the other woman?

She laughs again and looks away coyly. "I mean, I guess so."

It's not clear if Money, Power, Glory was originally written just to rile her detractors but it makes a decent stab at it by warning: "I'm going to take them for all that they've got."

"I was in more of a sardonic mood," she says of writing that song. "Like, if all that I was actually going to be allowed to have by the media was money, loads of money, then fuck it … What I actually wanted was something quiet and simple: a writer's community and respect." She talks about that frequently: craving a peaceful life in an artistic community, away from the glare of a media that "always puts an adjective in front of my name, and never a good one".

Like the woozy soft rock of the album's teaser track West Coast, many of the songs on Ultraviolence are slow-tempo and atmospheric, ditching the hip-hop trappings of Born To Die for what she and her producer – the Black Keys' Dan Auerbach – call a "real narco swing". Del Rey originally thought she had completed the album back in December, but after meeting Auerbach in a club and dancing the night away with him she realised she needed to record it all over again with his looser techniques – adding a more casual, California vibe to the sound by recording in single takes, with cheap microphones bought from the drugstore.

It wasn't all plain sailing. One track, Brooklyn Baby, had been written with Lou Reed in mind: he'd wanted to work with Del Rey and so she'd flown over to New York to meet him. "I took the red eye, touched down at 7am … and two minutes later he died," she says.

If the critical sniping had died down, then Del Rey was finding her life invaded by other, more intrusive, means. In 2012, her personal computer was accessed by hackers and all sorts of information started to appear online: pictures, financial details, health records, not to mention her songs. "All 211 of them," she sighs. "Just one more element of the unknown in my daily life." She says she has no way of knowing who currently has access to several years' worth of material, and no way of controlling the slow-drip leak of them online, including songs written for other people and at least one – Black Beauty – that was originally scheduled for Ultraviolence.

Indeed, when you start to look closely at Del Rey's past three years, it's not hard to understand why she might feel burned by her experience of stardom. You're also forced to wonder why the pop stars who attract the most vitriol are so often solo female artists.

"People ask me this all the time," she says. "I think they think there's an element of sexism going on, but I feel that it's more personal. I don't see where the female part comes into it. I just can't catch that feminist angle."

I mention some current examples of musicians getting picked over in the spotlight: Miley Cyrus, Lorde, Lily Allen, Lady Gaga, Sinéad O'Connor spring to mind.

"Well maybe those people are true provocateurs," she says. "But I'm really not and never have been. I don't think there's any shock value in my stuff – well, maybe the odd disconcerting lyric – but I think other people probably deserve the criticism, because they're eliciting it."

What about her video for Ride, in which she hooks up with a succession of older guys from biker gangs (it received criticism for, among other things, appearing to glamorise prostitution)?

"OK," she concedes. "I can see how that video would raise a feminist eyebrow. But that was more personal to me – it was about my feelings on free love and what the effect of meeting strangers can bring into your life: how it can make you unhinged in the right way and free you from the social obligations I hope we're growing out of in 2014."

How much did that video reflect her actual life?

"Oh, 100%"

Hanging out with biker gangs and going off with different guys?

"Yeah," she says, looking away again with another awkward laugh.

For all the accusations of being a fraud, Lana Del Rey seems to have lived a more rock'n'roll existence than your average pop star. She talks of teenage years spent "displaced … I didn't have a home, didn't know my social security number" and says she wasn't in contact with her parents for about six years. Which must have made it extra galling when accusations came in that her career was funded by her father. "It was the exact opposite of that," she says. "We never had more money than anyone we ever knew in town. My dad was a well-loved entrepreneur – he was interested in the early dawning of the internet in 1994 – but it wasn't anything that ever translated financially." When those stories first emerged in the wake of Video Games she says she wasn't even sure what her father was doing with his life: "And I don't think he was too sure what I had been up to either. So it was interesting that they sort of fictionally put us side-by-side together and involved him in that story."

Del Rey likes to describe the more tumultuous periods of her life in romantic terms: she says she'd often spend her nights wandering around New York – "West Side Highway, Lower East Side, parts of Brooklyn" – meeting strangers and seeing where the night took them. "I was inspired by Dylan's stories of meeting people and making music after you met them. I met a lot of singers, painters, bikers passing through. They were friends, or sometimes more. All people I was really interested in on impact."

It sounds pretty dangerous.

"Yeah, I was lucky, but I also have strong intuition."

Does she still do it?

"Sometimes."

Does anyone ever say: "Hang on … you're Lana Del Rey!"

"Sometimes they do. About half the time they do, half the time they don't. If they know who I am I can just leave, or I say it's not a big deal, I'm just a singer."

Are they not surprised to see you out wandering the streets?

"If I'm in LA then maybe. If I'm in Omaha, maybe not."

When she was 18, Del Rey's darker experiences – she has talked about being alcoholic – prompted her to take up outreach work helping those addicted to drugs or alcohol. It's something she describes as her true calling and something she still does when she gets the chance.

"I live in Koreatown on the edge of Hancock Park [in LA], so I do different things where and when I can. It's not just people with mental illness on the streets, but also people who, throughout the years, have lost identification information, that sort of thing. And I know what to do, I know how I can help, because I was that person."

She says it feeds directly into her music. "A lot of my songs are not just simple verse-chorus pop songs – they're more psychological." She talks about tempo, and how she likes to reflect her mental state through a song's speed: "When I played [the label] West Coast they were really not happy that it slipped into an even slower BPM for the chorus," she says. "They were like: 'None of these songs are good for radio and now you're slowing them down when they should be speeded up.' But for me, my life was feeling murky, and that sense of disconnectedness from the streets is part of that."

She longs to be regarded as a serious songwriter, which is why those early accusations of fakery stung her so badly. Yet Del Rey only really needs to take a step back to see how well things have gone for her since she rode out that initial storm and began accruing the critical respect she feels she deserves. Outside music, too, her life appears relatively settled, even if she does describe her relationship with fellow musician Barrie-James O'Neill intensely: "We have a difficult road. He's a very dark character. He has months on end where it's a really dark stretch of writing and waiting, he has his total own world so …"

She falls silent. A waft of brass floats by and mingles with her cigarette smoke. I think about her live shows, such as the outdoor one she's due to play later that night, during which she'll respond to the constant screams – her fans are too busy taking photos to applaud – by letting her band jam away for 20 minutes while she wanders the photo pit, posing for selfies with fans in the front row. Surely during those moments she must love what she does.

"No," she says. Then after another drag from her cigarette she looks down towards the busy street below and says. "I don't know what I think. All I know is that, right now, I like sitting here, on this terrace." She leans back and, for a moment, looks completely content in the silence.

Ultraviolence is released on Polydor on 16 June. Tim Jonze's trip to New Orleans was paid for by Polydor.

Originally published on theguardian.com with the headline Lana Del Rey: 'I wish I was dead already'.

Following the article’s publication, Lana Del Rey shared subsequently deleted tweets criticizing the piece:

Read The Guardian’s response here.

[lizzygrantarchives]

The Fader, June 4, 2014

Read a candid interview with one of the era’s most controversial stars, on fame, feminism and her new album, Ultraviolence.

The camera zooms in on Lana Del Rey as she turns away from the crowd, hiding all but the slightest silhouette of her face. In the background, a massive screen flickers deep purple and blue; beside her on stage sits a potted palm. For one full minute: riotous, embracing applause. Gently, she wipes a tear with the middle finger of her left hand, then wipes her nose, which from this angle appears as the bottom-half of a perfectly slender S curve that begins on her forehead, shimmies down her face and ramps off into the void. Finally, she turns to address the audience, smiles and says, “I think you’re going to have to sing it for me.” The piano starts, and everyone complies, very loudly and very clearly. She tries to sing too, of course, then pauses to cry and smile at the same time, seemingly overwhelmed by the audience’s affection. But no one else stops singing: It’s you, it’s you, it’s all for you…

Lana Del Rey, the singer whose entire self so often seems a carefully constructed display, didn’t conceive of this scene, like she has the many music videos that helped propel her to fame. First came the eerily star-foreshadowing montages of 2008, in which she stitched together found footage and vamped in front of an American flag under her given name, Lizzy Grant. Back then, sometimes she’d make four videos for the same song, but most times, nobody much saw them. Next came “Video Games,” which applied that same cut-up look to a slightly fuller sound, and thrust Grant, now singing as Lana Del Rey, from bedroom clips to blockbusters. Then the big budgets arrived: she sat on a throne backed by two tigers in the video for “Born to Die,” embodied both Jackie O and Marilyn in a span of minutes for “National Anthem” and, for "Tropico" lounged with Elvis and John Wayne in CGI heaven. Lana Del Rey’s filmography is a master class on how to build an icon, and yet, no footage feels like proof of her iconicity as much as the shaky clip of a teary 2013 performance, shot on a phone by a fan in Dublin.

I ask her why she was crying. “I’d been sick on tour for about two years with this medical anomaly that doctors couldn’t figure out,” she says, to my surprise. “That’s a big part of my life: I just feel really sick a lot of the time and can’t figure out why. I’d gotten these shots in Russia, where we’d just been. It was just heavy. It’s just heavy performing for people who really care about you, and you don’t really care that much about yourself sometimes. I thought it was sad. I thought my position was sad. I thought it was sad to be in Ireland singing for people who really cared when I wasn’t sure if I did.” I’d expected self-congratulation, the triumph of finally making it. You never really know.

We’re speaking in the Brooklyn backyard of this story’s photographer, and she’s wearing one of his shirts. It fits her poorly—probably a men’s XXL—and with her hair and makeup done up for the cover shoot, she gives the impression of a young lumberjack’s date the morning after prom. She must know this. They’d been taking the photos in the house earlier, in an attempt at a more laid-back glimpse of a star known for her Hollywood glamour, when she noticed a rack of his vintage clothes and asked to pull from it. More than raw beauty, hers is the gift of producing a precise effect; voilá, she looks like somebody’s girlfriend.

It’s a few weeks before the release of her second major-label album, Ultraviolence, and like any artist with over a billion YouTube views, the 27-year-old Lana Del Rey is blessed and cursed with a punishing schedule. By the time I click off my recorder, after nearly 90 minutes, her publicist has twice come out to end the interview. In both cases, she rebuffs him. Barefoot, she carries a casualness with hardly a hint of the imperious pop star I’d expected; she’s excited, pensive, a little bit apprehensive. After, she tells me it’s the longest interview she’s ever done.

From the backyard where we sit, through an old screen door with a frame rimmed in dried-out vines, I can always hear her entourage. Among the six or seven inside, there’s her bodyguard, formerly employed by Brad Pitt, and her British stylist, Johnny Blueeyes, who during the shoot was prone to bursting into the room and crying, “You’re a staaaar!” The whole team, she says, was hired in 2011, after “Video Games” attracted offers from Interscope and Polydor. “I met everyone the same week,” she says. “Because I was very shy, I just sort of stuck with them.” Later, she mentions the staff again, by way of self-analysis. “I’m never the star of my own show,” she says. “I have a very complicated family life. I have a complicated personal life. It’s not just my life, it’s everyone else’s in this extended family unit. It’s always about someone else, even with the people I work with. I’m the quietest person on the set, generally. I’m actually the one that’s trying to keep it all together. It’s pretty weird. It’s a weird, weird world.” She’s chain-smoking Parliaments.

Everyone knows Lana Del Rey’s so-called true identity: she was born Elizabeth Grant, daughter to an entrepreneur who sold domain names. In the press, there’s been a perverse joy in labeling her a phony, whether that’s regarding her supposedly surgically enhanced lips (she has always denied this), or the rebranding that marked her early career. She was born in Lake Placid, in upstate New York, and went to boarding school in Connecticut. When she first started doing shows in 2006, while studying metaphysics at Fordham University in the Bronx, it was with a folky bent and a guitar that her uncle taught her how to play. The F chord was too hard, she later told the BBC’s Mark Savage—“Four fingers? Never going to happen”—but she recorded an acoustic album as May Jailer just the same. (That record, Sirens, was never released, though it eventually leaked online.) In 2008, while still in college, she signed a $10,000 record deal with an indie label called 5 Points and moved to a trailer park in North Bergen, New Jersey. index Magazine filmed a giddy interview with her there; she appears in a car mechanic’s windbreaker, her platinum blonde hair tied up with a baby blue scarf, and, when asked about the “very cohesive package” of her musical identity, says, “It has been a lifelong ambition and desire… to have a defined life and a defined world to live in.” During this period, she teamed with David Kahne, a producer for Paul McCartney and The Strokes, and developed a more idiosyncratic sound for her self-penned lyrics, with affected jazz vocals, synthesized orchestra sections and hip-hop drums—an uncanny mix of old and new. Under the name Lizzy Grant, she released an EP, Kill Kill, and recorded an album, Lana Del Ray A.K.A. Lizzy Grant, which sat on 5 Points’ shelf for two years before it was digitally released in 2010. By then, she’d gone brunette with swooping Veronica Lake curls, and was spending time in London in search of another deal. With the help of a newly hired manager and lawyer, she bought back the album rights and pulled it from the market. Henceforth, she would be known as Lana Del Rey.

But her past was still there in traces online, the story of a small-town girl with big dreams and the cunning to change herself to make them come true. It’d be an all-American tale, if only she seemed self-made; instead, there was a discomfiting sense of someone else behind the scenes, orchestrating a bait-and-switch with secretly funded videos that only slummed their DIY aesthetic. For an artist who broke online, her father’s background raised red flags—beside selling domain names, he’d worked in advertising and helped market her Lizzy Grant releases. And there was a suspiciously short time between “Video Games,” which was listed by many blogs as a self-release, and the announcement that she’d signed with two major labels. In any case, she was never especially embarrassed about her ambition; rather, she embraced it as a defining trait. On “Radio,” the pluckiest song on Lana Del Rey’s relentlessly downtrodden debut, Born to Die, she sings of success like a taunt: American dreams came true somehow/ I swore I’d chase em until I was dead/ I heard the streets were paved with gold/ That’s what my father said… Baby, love me cause I’m playing on the radio/ How do you like me now? She was a star who announced her own arrival, singing of fame with a wistfulness even as she was just beginning to taste it.

Many critics were bristled by her supposed fraud. The New York Times’ Jon Caramanica pronounced Lana Del Rey D.O.A. in a scathing review, concluding with: “The only real option is to wash off that face paint, muss up that hair and try again in a few years. There are so many more names out there for the choosing.” Pitchfork’s Lindsay Zoladz called Born to Die “the album equivalent of a faked orgasm.” It was an unusual time for music, with major labels chasing the internet’s whims by poaching unproven newcomers off the strength of a viral track and a look. For skeptics, Lana Del Rey became a symbol of puffed-up online buzz itself. (Before Zoladz’s 5.5 review, Pitchfork had notably awarded “Video Games” Best New Track and granted her a Rising profile, ostensibly reserved for artists they recommend.) The Hipster Runoff blogger Carles, a one-man peanut gallery to the indie press, was Lana Del Rey’s most visceral and obsessive critic, but also one of the most insightful, because criticizing her always came hand-in-hand with criticizing himself and the music web’s ceaseless appetite for breaking artists to sell to brands (or take down in think pieces). He called it their “dark, abusive, co-dependent relationship on the content farm.”

But as it turns out, a lot of music fans didn’t care. Today, Born to Die has sold over 7 million copies worldwide, more than Beyoncé’s last two albums combined. Ten months after the LP’s release, her Paradise EP debuted in Billboard’s top 10. Eight months later, Cedric Gervais’ EDM remix of “Summertime Sadness” went platinum; soon after, her song for The Great Gatsby soundtrack, “Young and Beautiful,” went platinum, too. On that last track, a haunting orchestral number, she directly addresses her own status and the position of many a woman, pop idol or not: Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful? Sometimes her songs drag long, and sometimes her self-seriousness can be grating, but in beautiful moments such as that, with her voice situated among an aptly hot-blooded score, Lana Del Rey’s confidence about her own vulnerability transcends melodrama into the realms of great art. In the period since her big authenticity reckoning, one thing has become clear: accusations of constructedness would not crush her. She says they came close, though. Shortly after the release of “Video Games,” she started dating another musician, Barrie-James O’Neill. According to a profile of her in Nylon, he first phoned her out of the blue after his manager sent him the video with the caption “Your future ex-wife.” I ask what he was like during the period of her most pronounced attacks. “He was worried,” she says. “I was, you know, a mess. I totally wanted to kill myself every day.”

Over the years, four themes have come to define her lyrics, whichever the persona: indecisiveness, submissiveness, reverence for American icons and self-destructiveness, both within herself and the men she idolizes in song. It’s a lot of “He Hit Me (And It Felt Like A Kiss),” and in fact, she quotes that infamous song unwinkingly on the title track of Ultraviolence, before continuing, You’re my cult leader, I love you forever, I love you forever. The consistency at which these four themes appear in her music suggests not quite a foxy con artist, but rather someone moving superficial pieces around themselves—a name, a look—until they find a comfortable identity, much like anybody navigating young adulthood. So I ask her what she was up to with those old Lizzy Grant videos, when she’d don a Marilyn Monroe wig, drape herself in the stars and stripes and blow the webcam a kiss. “Honestly, I feel like it’s more of a girl thing,” she says. “I was just kind of playing, and, literally, I’m still playing. For me, being this way and dressed like this isn’t different than being out in a wig. It’s all the same to me. It’s all nothing, it’s all everything. I could really go any way. I’ve lived a lot of different lives. I lived down in Alabama with my boyfriend, I lived here in Brooklyn and in Jersey. I’ve been a lot of different people, I guess.”

There’s a monologue that opens her “Ride” video, which she tells me is autobiographical. Part of it goes like this: “I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me I had a chameleon soul. No moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality. Just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean.” In the video, she has sex with a 40-something biker on a pinball machine. In “National Anthem,” she’s married to A$AP Rocky, who portrays a black president who likes to shoot dice. In “Tropico,” she runs with a Hispanic crowd. In a number of others, she’s with a scrawny white guy with tattoos. The men change but sex is constant; Lana Del Rey embodies searching for yourself in someone else. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she tells me at one point. “I’m trying to do what feels right. I tried a lot of different ways of life, you know, things I never really talk about, just because they are kind of different. I didn’t really have one fixed way that I could envision myself living. Going from a good relationship to a good relationship—I thought that was healthy.”

Her portrayal of those relationships, though, has prompted mixed reviews among feminists. Some criticize the way she seems to idealize powerlessness and servitude, while others appreciate her fluid embodiment of different identities, as well as her candor about both her desire and her weakness. In any case, her comments on the subject will be disappointing for both camps: “For me, the issue of feminism is just not an interesting concept,” she says. “I’m more interested in, you know, SpaceX and Tesla, what’s going to happen with our intergalactic possibilities. Whenever people bring up feminism, I’m like, god. I’m just not really that interested.” Fortunately, her ambivalence about politics doesn’t undo any subversiveness that may be embedded in her work (though, nor does it excuse any ill it may cause). When pressed, she adds, more illuminatingly, “My idea of a true feminist is a woman who feels free enough to do whatever she wants.” I ask her why she’s always being choked in her videos, and she gives a fitting answer: “I like a little hardcore love.” That raises an important point: she’s the one willing these scenarios into existence, romanticizing the very things that hurt her. She writes her own songs and music video treatments, and a similar self-mythologizing applies to her interviews, too. In a Lizzy Grant-era piece for the Huffington Post, she told a reporter, “Strangest performance: Alone in a basement for a handsome record executive. Strangest [song] ever written: Back at his office while I was making out with him.” When I ask her if she regrets joking like that, given how often people perceived her as a puppet of some executive team, she says, no, the story was true: “I had a seven-year relationship with the head of this label, and he was a huge inspiration to me. I’ll tell you later when more people know. He never signed me, but he was like my muse, the love of my life.” Rather than shying away from the snake pit that is sex and power, she walks right in. On Ultraviolence, there’s a song called “Fucked My Way Up to the Top.”

But is she happy now that she’s there? No matter what, her singing voice seems so sad. In an essay called “The Meaning of Lana Del Rey,” a French academic named Catherine Vigier offers one explanation: “She is representing and speaking to a contradiction facing thousands of young women today, women who have followed mainstream society’s prescriptions for success in what has been called a post-feminist world, but who find that real liberation and genuine satisfaction elude them.” Vigier goes on to argue that, for women living under capitalism, there can never be happiness—not through money, nor celebrity, nor even love—and she says the music makes this point clear. So there you have it: a post-feminist, socialist reading of Lana Del Rey. There’s a queer reading available, too, if you consider her identity-play synonymous with dressing in drag, as Christopher Glazek did in Artforum, calling her a “great queer performance artist.” With Lana Del Rey, everybody’s a critic, and any interpretation is possible.

By the time of Ultraviolence’s release, those infinite opinions have long since canceled each other out, leaving room for listeners to take up a more subjective relationship with her music without the pressure of coming up with something clever. Compared to Born to Die, the new album sounds far more like straight-up rock music, recorded in live takes with a Nashville band assembled by producer Dan Auerbach. She’s withdrawing from contemporary pop, a space in which she says she never felt comfortable; gone are the genre-blurring samples that gave her debut the impression of trying too hard to be trendy. The album feels like a sprawling American desert, devastatingly huge, windswept by shrieking electric guitars. Lana Del Rey is surrounded by ghosts and completely alone, the last lines of her verses reverbed out and leading nowhere forever. We could go back to the start, she sings on the title track, but I don’t know where we are. Certainly the rock ballad suits her retro preoccupation; the lead single “West Coast” evokes the opening riff of The Beatles’ “And I Love Her” and the chord progression from The Stooges’ proto-punk “Dirt.” She seems to have found confidence in psych-rock and narcotized swing.

One of the most telling lines from Born to Die was on the song “Off to the Races”: I’m not afraid to say that I’d die without him. Within the self-contained world of that album, this was both a low-point and a high-point, with Lana copping to utter reliance on men but also having the self-awareness to say so. On the Ultraviolence standout “Brooklyn Baby,” she exalts her band-leader boyfriend for a few verses, then lands on this uncharacteristically self-assured gem: Yeah, my boyfriend’s really cool/ But he’s not as cool as me. I ask her about the line, and she says, “That wasn’t even supposed to be there, and I kind of sang it with a smile, and Dan was looking at me and laughing. I’m just kind of fucking around.” She’s already convinced everyone else of her worth, but here she seems to have finally convinced herself.

In that Lizzy Grant interview with Huffington Post, she spoke of her love of American icons: “All the good stuff is real but isn’t, myself included… Whatever you choose to be your reality is your reality.” You can be the president’s wife, as in “National Anthem,” and you can be his mistress; you can be a stripper and you can be Eve, as in “Tropico”; it doesn’t matter which version of yourself came first when you can be everything at once. That’s a powerful thought, and I’m not sure she even completely understands it. “My career isn’t about me,” she tells me at one point, lamenting the misunderstandings about her that she says have riddled her critics’ attacks. “My career is a reflection of journalism, current-day journalism. My public persona and career has nothing to do with my internal process or my personal life. It is actually just a reflection on writers’ creative processes and where they’re at in 2014. Literally has nothing to do with me. Most of anything you’ve ever read is not true.” We don’t know who she is, but you know what? Neither does she.

As she moves from one character to another in her music videos, and from one type of man to another, from one recording alias to another, Lana Del Rey performs not just existential crisis but the power to blindly push through it. On Ultraviolence’s “Money Power Glory,” she sings, My life it comprises of losses and wins and fails and falls, a line immediately followed by more self-sacrifice: I can do it if you really, really like that. Even if she’s only adapting to curry favor, isn’t that what we all do? We perform identity every day, tweaking ourselves for a boyfriend and a boss. Using the very idea of malleability, Lana Del Rey has fashioned herself a superstar, setting to music the human drama of altering yourself to survive and rise. Still, she’s enamored with self-destruction, and perhaps shapeshifting is also about precisely that: you play so many characters that you lose any stable sense of yourself, so that when you’re standing in front of a crowd, for example, and they’re screaming your praises, your response is confusion and tears.

At shows these days, she takes breaks between songs to sign things and take pictures with fans. A recent reviewer described the crowd’s reception as hitting “approximately jet-engine volume”; a music executive who saw her said it was like she was The Beatles. But talking to her, reality bends until only sadness seems like an appropriate response. That raincloud-eyed, tattooed guy who always appears in her videos, from “Blue Jeans” to “West Coast”—his name is Bradley Soileau. Toward the end of our talk, I ask her why she has used him so much. “I like Brad because I respect him that he’s free enough to use his body as a canvas,” she says. “He has a quote about war written across his forehead. I like that he knew that alienated him from society in a way that he couldn’t work regular jobs. He made a conscious decision and manifested it physically that he was going to be on the periphery. I like what that symbolizes.” That sounds a lot like what happens to someone when they become a famous musician, I tell her. There’s no going back for her either. “That’s true,” she says. “It’s pretty fucked up.” A stray cat tip-toes across the fence surrounding the backyard, and Lana Del Rey lights another cigarette. I ask her what she misses the most. “I miss everything.”

Originally published on thefader.com with the headline Lana Del Rey Is Anyone She Wants to Be, and in the June/July 2014 issue of The Fader with the headline Miss Everything.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Radio.com, August 16, 2013

As a remix of "Summertime Sadness" brings her to radio in a big way, we sit down with Lana Del Rey to discuss the past and the future.

By 10:30 p.m, almost 100,000 people have filed out of Chicago’s Grant Park following the first day of Lollapalooza 2013, held a couple weeks back. As the mass of coming-down kids move toward the exits, Lana Del Rey sits at a picnic table backstage, just far enough away from the noise. It’s so dark where she sits that until you come close enough to catch her eye, the only thing you can really see is the cherry of her cigarette. This post-festival scene is in stark contrast to her “pretty crazy” headlining performance earlier that night.

“I had to go around the world for two years just to have an audience in Chicago,” she told Radio.com. “I mean, I could just have been unpopular forever, that probably would have been a lot less tiring.”

A year and a half later, after all the panning and parodies of Born to Die have come and gone, there’s a touch of fame PTSD in how Lana Del Rey speaks about herself. She references her “not great welcoming into the American public eye,” but the truth of the matter is, we’re in the midst of the second coming of Lana Del Rey. When tastemakers grow tired, artists of a poppy temperament can try the most mainstream, “of the people” medium: radio.

Those who wrote off Lana Del Rey may be surprised to learn that she has a No. 1 song on a Billboard chart (Dance/Mix Show Airplay) this week. And a Top 5 (Hot Rock Songs, where she has multiple songs charting). And a Top 15 (Digital Songs). And, most noteworthy of all, a Top 20 on the Hot 100, where French house DJ/producer Cedric Gervais’ remix of “Summertime Sadness” currently sits at No. 16. Originally released on Born to Die, “Summertime Sadness” has been given new life through its remixes, with Gervais’ version racking up adds at Top 40 stations nationwide throughout the last month.

Meanwhile, “Young and Beautiful,” Lana’s contribution to The Great Gatsby soundtrack, is receiving airplay on alternative, not pop, stations. Radio isn’t quite sure what sure what to do with Lana Del Rey, but stations are playing her nonetheless. And not surprisingly, she couldn’t be more thrilled. She discussed all this and more in a meandering chat, including her plans for a new album, which she says have been thrown off by the recent barrage of leaks of her songs.

“To be honest, what really happened was, three years ago somebody remotely accessed my hard drive, so even songs I’ve never emailed to myself [were accessed],” she explained. “There are hundreds of them.”

Seeing your set tonight, it’s clear that your stage performance is more elaborate now than it was when you first started touring behind Born To Die, particularly because of the video vignettes. What were trying to achieve with this incarnation of your live show?

Well, I’m sort of influenced each day by whatever I come upon. Like I don’t listen to that much new music, but I actually really love Father John Misty, who kind of reminded me of my roots. I went back to listening to Joan Baez and Bob Dylan, whose life path really influenced my life path 10 years ago when I was 18. For the visuals, sometimes before the songs even come to me, I definitely have a picture first of something I want to paint with words. I remember when I was 16 and I read Howl by Allen Ginsberg; that was the first time I kind of realized you could paint pictures with words and I wanted to do that.

I actually kind of met my directorial soulmate with Anthony Mandler. I always give him these mood boards and storyboards that he goes through and makes all of the visions I have come to life. He never says no and he asks me why do I want it to be about the kindness of strangers, like in the case of “Ride” [the video/short film] — why am I with different men and things like that? I tell him it’s not about being submissive to men or anything like that. It’s about not really knowing anyone close to you who can help you, and being really lucky enough to finding people who you just meet randomly, who can take care of you until you can take care of yourself.

This is to say, the visuals kind of come from ideas that I think are important. But when it comes to the live show itself, that’s the one thing I really don’t think too much about. I’m kind of traditional in that way, where I don’t have much of a magic show. I’m just kind of there to sing and I don’t have too too much to say.

Something that struck me tonight was that I was standing among all of these young girls and I heard at least five times, “I want to be her.” This whole festival is full of girls in flower headbands like you’re wearing right now. Are you aware of these things?

Wow. Well, my reaction is that it’s pretty surreal considering I didn’t have a great welcoming into the American public eye. I kind of feel lucky enough to have written those songs for myself and to tell my own story to myself. I think it’s important to be a witness to your own life through writing. And for me, I thought that would be where it’s really going to end because I’m not going to be accepted — that is my fate. But I’ve learned to go along with things. I toured all over Europe, which was totally madness — a lot of people, big crowds. I was kind of leading a double life, ’cause I’d come home to America and things were very quiet — I’d go about my day and take care of my brother and sister who live with me. So in a way, I’m just glad that nothing’s going wrong.

Considering this young female audience you have, do you feel any pressure to be a role model?

Well I think the good thing is, I do actually aim to live my life with grace and dignity, if anyone felt like emulating it. I know I look a certain way sometimes, or cast a certain vibe. But I really don’t like to be in trouble. I like to live a good life, it is important to me.

At a certain point, though, doesn’t your act become performance art?

Well it’s kind of become that. When the audience gets bigger, it becomes less for you and more of a performance, even though I’m not really a natural performer. I love to write, I love to record in the studio – that’s what I love.

Speaking of, are you working on any new music right now?

I was until my record got leaked last week, ’cause my life is like completely invaded. But yeah, I’m writing songs that I really like right now. They’re really low-key and stripped back, all sort of West Coast inspired. The further along I’ve gotten, the more I stay working with like the same four people. Like Dan [Daniel Heath, who co-wrote “Blue Jeans”], who’s not into pop music but rather, a composer for scores and studied under Hans Zimmer. Him and my boyfriend Barrie [Barrie-James O'Neill, of Glasgow folk-rock band Kassidy]. But I want to work with Lou Reed, and I’d like to kind of keep things low-key and cool.

I think the thought was that some of those leaked demos were of songs you wrote much earlier in your career.

Well some of them were, but some of them, like “Black Beauty,” weren’t…

Are you going to move forward with work on them, or do you feel too discouraged because of the leaks?

I do feel discouraged, yeah. I don’t really know what to put on the record. But I guess I could just put them on and see what happens. Each time I write… I’ll never write a song if I don’t think it’s going to be perfect for the record.

That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.

That’s the way I kind of do it, which means I don’t write all the time. My muse is really fleeting. Sometimes it’s six months. I don’t really push it. ’Cause you have to go do things to write about. You have to go get into to trouble to write about it. (Laughs)

Do you feel like where your life is at right now is more conducive to writing music more organically than before Born To Die came out and you were so shrouded in hype?

Yeah, I didn’t like that. I don’t think it’s been conducive to writing, being on the road and all that. I don’t really feel inspired to write at all, but beforehand, when I was in Brooklyn for nine years… I was kind of a night owl and just walked around and met weird people. That was me picking up life experiences and meshing them into my own. That really did it for me. Actually, Lollapalooza is my last live commitment. It’s too bad ’cause it’s been such a long time since the last record. I really feel like I need six months to live again, time to be like, normal or abnormal. I don’t have anyone writing anything for me. It’s such an internal well and if it’s not full, it’s just not full.

You could work with outside songwriters. Are you open to that kind of thing a bit more now?

Yeah, I’m more open to it now, ’cause personally I’m not really feeling it. (Laughs) Like this guy I worked with eight years ago, Steven Mertens, who made my first record [editor’s note: David Kahne is credited as the producer of her debut, 2010’s Lana Del Ray a.k.a. Lizzy Grant; Mertens is a member of the Brooklyn band Spacecamp]. He knew me really well. So I’d like to maybe go back and get reminded of why I thought I could be anything other than a writer. I’d like to maybe just go back and see what’s there.

Let’s talk for a second about new music you have released relatively recently. Did you write “Young and Beautiful” specifically for The Great Gatsby soundtrack, or was that a song you had previously penned but not released?

I wrote a different song, but when Baz Luhrmann heard it, he asked me if I could I write a memory cue for Daisy. So I sang him a chorus of “Young and Beautiful” that I had already — just a chorus — and he thought that’d be good for her. I wrote the whole thing after I watched her garden scenes.

Were you happy with how it was incorporated into the film?

Yeah. I mean, I’m always wary about super big projects that have a lot of glitz. But something weird that happened, was that “Young and Beautiful” got picked up by alternative stations. I come home [from touring Europe] after four months and “Summertime Sadness” is on the radio, too. So I’m grateful for that, ’cause I love that song.

I want to go back to something you said earlier. You acknowledged that you didn’t have a great welcoming into the American public eye, but now, a year and half after Born to Die came out, you’re connecting with a new audience via the “Summertime Sadness” remix at Top 40 radio.

It just reinforces the fact that… not that nothing really matters, but that other people’s opinions don’t really matter because it can change on a dime. And if people are so ready to change, maybe they don’t have the strongest character. I’m not as interested in flip-floppers. I kind of feel blessed the more I go along. I have a young brother and sister, and it’s gotten really basic for me and become about the family. How are we all going to live together if I’m on the road? Are they going to come with me? Will I ever go home again? Probably not.

My new product manager, whom I’d never met before, brought me a SoundScan to show me that “Summertime Sadness” was being spun, a lot of times in L.A. and in New York. It kind of just doesn’t feel like it’s mine, ’cause I’ve had such a hand up to my face for so long.

Originally published on radio.com with the headline Lana Del Rey on the Leaks, the Imitators & the Haters.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Spin or Bin, October 27, 2012

At the luxurious Four Seasons Hotel in Singapore, Lana Del Rey, dressed in a simple yellow dress and red Vans shoes, welcomed me with open arms as I entered the room. The 26-year-old singer-songwriter shook my hands with a sweet smile. “Hey, how are you again?” she asked. She remembered me as I first met her when she played a show in Sydney three months ago. “Have you been busy? I hope you have been coping well,” smiled Del Rey as she sat down on the vacant couch. I really admire how down-to-earth she is despite being so successful. She made me feel calm and at ease, like a longtime friend of hers during the entire interview where she revealed that music is not her first passion and that the interview questions posed were ‘interesting’! (Thanks to our Twitter followers). Check out the full interview below!

How did you get the name Lana Del Rey?

When I was younger I felt like I wasn’t the person I was supposed to become yet. I had a vision for myself that was as beautiful as I wanted the music to be. I generally don’t deny my creative impulses so that was just one of those creative impulses that I had.

What can we expect after the release of Born To Die: The Paradise Edition, will you still be releasing another album?

The only thing I have really been working on is helping two directors score two different movies. It’s not too in-depth, just writing songs for two different films. Actually I have to call Universal to ask if I’m supposed to reveal the movies. One of the movies is coming out in June next year. What I really like to do is start writing music for films, it’s a really natural place for me. Most of the people I work with are already composers so it’s a good fit. That’s really the only ambition that I have.

You posed nude in British GQ magazine recently, what makes you do that?

I just like how beautiful naked women are. I love seeing girls’ skin in pictures. I have all the old Playboy magazines from the 60s and 70s. I love the look of girls with red lips and shiny skin. I am a big fan of the female form. So for me, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Why did you decide for your latest music video Ride to be so lengthy like a 10 full minutes?

I really love movies as much as I love music. When I made my first record, I felt like I have to tell my stories through words and now I wanna wrap it up by telling my stories through pictures.

How were your teenage years like?

They were interesting. I stopped drinking 10 years ago just because I felt like a person who like trying new things and feel different. You do things so fast, you end up having so many different lifestyles all in one short time. Aside from that, I always felt like I have been around for a long time. My mother said that when I was seven, I used to think that I was an adult. When I was at all the parties, I talk to people like they were my friends.

Did you expect Born To Die to have so much success?

When I made that record, I brought it to a lot of different record labels and they weren’t interested in it because it was sort of weird. It wasn’t party music, my music was more down beat. People who got involved in it kind of got involved with it as a passion project. My photographer was my sister and my little brother was helping me. I was making my own movie stills from videos I took from YouTube. I have been doing that for a long time so I felt like if it was gonna work, it would have worked a long time ago. So no, I didn’t expect the success at all.

How do you feel when you feel like you got the attention of people?

I think the attention came with such a negative spin on the other side. It never really felt like it was something I could sit back and enjoy. I felt more like I have to guard the songs and protect them to make sure their future was protected. I really believed in the record, the music and the producers who have worked on it. I felt like I have no idea what is going to happen now.

How did you find this lush sound?

I found this young guy named Justin Parker and he always brought me different chords that he really likes. Originally when I started, I was just recording songs in my room and sending it to people to put music to. But then I found Justin, he started bringing me chords for Video Games and I started free styling. Eventually, I started free styling on all my songs like Video Games, Born To Die and Ride were all done on the spot in one take. But other songs like Summertime Sadness and Blue Jeans, I worked slowly with different composers.

What was it like working with ASAP Rocky on the National Anthem video?

I love him! When I told him I wanted him to play JFK in the video, he was totally down for it. ASAP Rocky and Azealia Banks are the only people I relate to these days.

What was the quirkiest item you received from a fan?

A crucifix necklace that is also a help whistle. I wore it for one of my videos although it was weird.

Do you have any special name for your fans?

No because all the other girls have such good names for their fans. I don’t have any names for them but they do run the show. They know they are in charge. (laughs)

How do you cope with fame?

I really hope I still feel inspired to write the way I used to a few years ago. When I first found writing, it was really new. I felt like I was doing something no one has ever done before. In California, I take a lot of walks and I drive on my own. No one ever said anything to me and I have my brother and sister with me there. When I leave America, it gets a little crazier. To be honest, when I’m talking to people with interesting questions like this interview, that is really good. And then the rest of it, I’m not sure about…

Some of your videos are controversial, what’s your take on controversy?

That’s a really good question! I think I wanted respect more than I wanted anything else. I considered myself a writer because writing is my passion. I hope I would have respect from journalists. I don’t welcome controversy as much as I welcome more creative collaboration with amazing people. When I wrote the record, it seemed more like I was trying to capture a moment in time. But with Ride was a little different, that would seem really fucking weird to people. The rest of it I don’t think it is that controversial.

Who is Lana Del Rey beyond music and all these attention from the public? Who are you really?

Although I love music, it is not my first passion. When I decided to stop drinking 10 years ago, my passion was working with homeless outreach, drugs and alcohol rehabilitation. I lived in New York for 10 years so that’s my job for real. I would say music doesn’t really feel like my true calling.

What are your all time three favourite movies?

Don’t Look Back by D.A. Pennebaker that covers Bob Dylan’s 1965 concert tour in the UK. It’s fucking crazy! I love American Beauty and The Godfather part one and two.

You wrote a song called Ghetto Baby for Cheryl Cole, how did that come about?

We have the same boss at Polydor and they thought Cheryl would like the song so they played it to her. She loved it and decided to record it.

Many people tried to define your music, what will you personally call it?

I would say it is film-made, really visual and reflective.

Originally published on spinorbinmusic.com with the headline Lana Del Rey Reveals All In Intimate Interview: “Music Is Not My First Passion.” Click here to view photos from the interview, conducted on October 25, 2012.

[lizzygrantarchives]

Nowness, April 4, 2012

Sassy Talk From the Breathy Starlet on Everybody’s Lips.

Breaking through with last year's sensual and epic single “Video Games,” [Lana] Del Rey has rapidly garnered critical and commercial success with her diversely inspired songs and halcyon Americana look. The Lake Placid, New York, native’s debut album Born to Die topped the charts internationally as part of a meteoric rise to fame that has seen the 25-year-old sensation land the covers of British Vogue, Interview, Wonderland and The New York Times T Magazine. “I didn't compromise lyrically or sonically, I got to relive my memories through music and that made me happy,” explains Del Rey. “I've seen good writers sell their souls to the devil and trade their artistic integrity for radio plays and in the end they just end up wanting to kill themselves. I sing for myself and no one else.” Released as a single next week, “Blue Jeans” was written at the Santa Monica cottage of composer Dan Heath, with Del Rey freestyling the lyrics over a chord progression that would end up becoming the track’s haunting chorus. Here the doe-eyed, pouting star reveals her love of life in the fast lane.

Blue jeans or bobby socks?

Diamonds.

Second hand or vintage?

Vintage.

Board games or video games?

Amusement Parks.

To have loved and lost or never loved at all?

When I was young I would've said loved and lost, now I know better.

Night in or night out?

Night out driving in LA.

Doing it for the love of it or doing it for the hell of it?

For the hell of it.

Glamorously debauched or effortlessly glamorous?

Debauched.

Kurt Cobain or Leonard Cohen?

Both. With Jim Morrison.

Originally published on nowness.com with the headline Lana Del Rey x Blood Orange.

[lizzygrantarchives]

ASCAP, March 16, 2012

ASCAP chanteuse Lana Del Rey is inescapable. Half a year before she released her breakthrough album Born to Die on January 31st, newspapers and websites were raving about her riveting single "Video Games." Now she graces the covers of magazines, teens profess their love for her online by the thousands and bloggers parse the authenticity of her image and the role that femininity plays in her music. Del Rey's woozy, noirish pop is clearly connecting – Born to Die sold 800,000 copies worldwide in its debut week, and hit #1 on the iTunes album chart. But despite all the digital ink spilled about Del Rey, precious little attention has focused on her approach to songwriting. We spoke with her about just that.

Have you always co-written songs? Was the writing process fairly effortless on Born to Die, or were there some songs that went through birth pains?

I've written every word except for two lines on this record. What I usually need my producers to do is to act like composers and soundscapers to enhance the beauty of my lyrics and glamorize the atmosphere around my voice. The writing process for me is always effortless but often slow. My muse comes rarely but when she does, she whispers words clearly and loudly into my ear.

How did you meet Emile Haynie? What about him convinced you to choose him as a producer on nearly every track of Born to Die?

Before I signed to Interscope, John Ehmann, who was an A&R man there, wanted me to meet Emile. When we met we knew quickly that we were musical soulmates, just like when [Born to Die co-writer] Justin Parker and I met. An example of how I work with Emile: I bring him a song that I've already written and I say to him "When you hear this song, I want you to feel like you can see 16-year-old girls sneaking out in the middle of the night in Miami." Then he would start to lace the track with samples of car alarms blaring and cicadas chirping like they do on a hot summer night. Then he would replace whatever drums were there with heavier, more dangerous beats – he knew I needed those to emphasize how dark things used to be for me. He knew how to translate that in a fresh and sexy way.

I hear Born to Die as way more consistent in tone and style than the first album. Was that intentional?

Born to Die is definitely not more consistent in tone or style. In fact my first record was a concept album about living back and forth between New Jersey and Coney Island, and was an exact documentation of my life up until that point. My only intention ever is to write exactly what happened.

Is there a song from Born to Die that you feel best captures who you are as a woman? What about as an artist?

I don't know about as a woman, but as a person the song "Born to Die" best represents me. I felt I lived most of my life divided into two states of either fear or love, and the change of mood between the verse and the chorus represents those two worlds merging together. In the verses, I'm begging myself not to give up and working through my confusion of being alive. But in the choruses, I let go and start talking to him and playing with him, saying "Come and take a walk on the wild side / Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain."

There are a lot of themes that pop up again and again in your music, but the one I’m most curious about is "The Star-Spangled Banner." You’ve got a song called “Oh Say Can You See” on your first album; you make reference to the National Anthem on “Mermaid Motel,” and of course you’ve got a song called “National Anthem” on the new album. What interests you so much about "The Star-Spangled Banner?"

We used to live in Kate Smith's old house called Camp Sunshine on Lake Placid lake. For a decade, she was the most famous singer in the world and she sang our nation’s theme song, "God Bless America." She broadcasted her popular radio show out of the top of that house. Referencing "The Star-Spangled Banner" is my homage to her.

Do you think of your music as dark?

Yes.

Who is the ideal audience for your music? Has that changed over the years?

I wouldn't really know. I never had an audience before except for the people I talked to on MySpace from 2005 onward and the people who came to hear me sing on the downtown scene. From what I remember, we were definitely a darker group of characters who all lived life very untraditionally.

Your songs and image seem so informed by the glamor of classic movie stars. Have you considered acting yourself?

My music is not informed by the glamor of classic movie stars at all – it’s informed only by what I've been through as well as my visions for the future. I put clips of the occasional star in my video montages if I can relate to how alone they look. And "No" to the latter.

What sort of music do you think Elvis would be making if he were alive today?

Beautiful music – he'll always be the king to me.

Originally published on ascap.com with the headline The National Anthem of Lana Del Rey.