All I hear is Billie Holiday.

It’s all that I play.

– track 11, “The Blackest Day”

Say What You Will.

The first time I was consciously aware that I was listening to Lana Del Rey was in 2013, I think; it was the radio edit of Cedric Gervais’ “Summertime Sadness” remix. The beat and electronics sounded like everything else that year, meaning it should have been unbearable. But her vocals, the melody, the lyrics, the depth that was buried beneath the artificial electronic haze – it just grabbed hold of me, tight, with a grip that refused to loosen. After hearing it incessantly on the radio for some time, and thoroughly enjoying it despite myself, I finally looked into it and discovered that there was, in fact, a much better studio version available from her 2012 major-label debut, Born to Die. I then discovered her Great Gatsby contribution “Young and Beautiful” at this time, which I also liked more than I expected.

But earlier this year I gave her 2014 LP Ultraviolence a listen, and realized I was a true fan of her music. I think what might have delayed my becoming a fan for so long was the stigma associated with her and her music: that it’s offensive or shallow, or that she’s a terrible vocalist. And I should add that some of it was my own doing; her often-unadorned lyricism I, and I can only imagine many others, mistook as bad writing about trivial, even destructive, pleasures. Yet at the same time I suspected something else going on – a sort of irony or sarcasm. Listening to Ultraviolence convinced me that these suspicions were correct, and that there certainly was an ulterior purpose behind it all.

Ultraviolence was a huge step forward from her previous records. A more complex and conspicuous string section, jazzier percussion, strong guitar work, and a generally more ambitious approach were the markings of this follow-up LP. It was definitely a more timeless, graceful sound than the hip hop beats and bubbly melodies of Born to Die and Lana Del Ray, her small-time, digital-only debut from 2010. The influence of old-time lounge and jazz vocalists that was apparent but not totally utilized in her previous work was brought to the forefront on Ultraviolence, making for an idealized yet twisted take on the past.

This year’s Honeymoon takes this to sound to greater lengths. You’ve probably already read all the reviews that liken Lana to a singer in some sketchy, smoke-filled lounge in a black-and-white work of film noir. It is an apt description, no matter how ubiquitous it might be. But this retro, “noirish” (as she put it [1]) sound is romanticized; it’s too cinematic to be a mere imitation of the past – it’s a re-imagining. At the same time, she works in a bit of the electronic beats from her early material, acting as a splash of color on a black-and-white world. It’s a fine balance – a tightrope walk – but she keeps away the sense of anachronism.

Taken as a whole, it’s a stripped-down, sparse album, though it’s textured. It’s inviting and warm, but cold, too. And say what you will about Lana Del Rey – she certainly knows how to craft vivid, habitable records.

Hazy, Not Muddy.

Honeymoon is significantly more ballad-driven than her other releases. This means the instrumentation is less bold than it was on Ultraviolence, yet that’s not necessarily for the worse: it’s simply a subtler, more restrained approach, and one that puts the spotlight on Del Rey’s vocal performances. The instrumentals work more as a mood or backdrop than anything else. Haunting strings open the album, dripping with nostalgia, and they continue throughout the record’s entirety, the violins and cellos creating a bed or foundation upon which the songs usually rest. There’s no guitar melodies to latch onto, no truly memorable flourishes from the string section, no rhythms that will stay with you. And this is exactly how it should be on an album like this, one so contemplative, and one that places such an emphasis on the vocals.

The very soul of the record is that slow, downbeat presence, and it has the potential to be its biggest flaw or its greatest strength. I suppose it comes down to the listener’s preference, and to something even more subjective: their mood. While listening to Honeymoon countless times before writing this review, I found that my enjoyment of the record was tied to my attitude at that moment. I suppose that’s true to some degree with every album, but with Honeymoon it seems especially so. The lengthy ballads, the often bare instrumentation, the lengthy track times – it all creates a very downcast, even oppressive, atmosphere in the mind of the listener.

There are those small touches, however, that jump out from the inexorable flow of the music and pull for your attention: the pan flute on “Music to Watch Boys To”; the saxophone that winds through “Terrence Loves You”; the organ lurking beneath “High by the Beach”; “24’s” castanets and Danny Elfman-like horn section – it goes on. And the combination of these timeless sounds with the modernity of the electronics is interesting, no doubt, and well-done. Perhaps the only time it draws attention to itself is found on “High by the Beach,” and this is simply because it is the first song on the record to feature prominent synthetic instrumentation. After this, it’s a very smooth blend of styles – a nice overview of Del Rey’s influences.

The production crew has been stripped down to Lana, Rick Nowels, and Kieron Menzies for this record, and they do a fantastic job of drawing out the necessary tones and effects to create this layer of music beneath her voice. It’s all too common for modern, big-budget records to boast excessively shiny production that saps life from the music. On Honeymoon, however, a gorgeous balance is struck between cloudiness and clarity. Everything is quite dreamy and hazy, but it’s never muddy.

But, of course, all of this acts as a backing to Lana Del Rey, the driving force of the record around which all else revolves.

“Don’t You Know I’m Human.”

“We both know,” Lana croons at the record’s start, “that it’s not fashionable to love me.” It’s a hushed, haunted opening that perfectly sets the mood for the ensuing 60+ minutes. It’s also a statement that is more than a little tongue-in-cheek, considering the harsh criticism she received when first coming onto the scene a few years ago. While her reviews have grown in positivity, she remains a mysterious figure, one that will most likely forever spark argument as to her sincerity, her talent, and her intention.

It’s that mystery, however, that’s so compelling. Her lyricism alternates between an ironic vapidness and a sentimental poetry. Her vocals are melodramatic in spots, plain and dry in others. She’s self-deprecating and self-aggrandizing. She’s come a long way from Born to Die, where it was unclear whether she was just another pop radio star or if she thought fame and popular music was one big joke, and was duping her listeners. On Ultraviolence, the veil was lifted, if only partly. There were occasions of sincerity, and when she was delivering one of her trademark superficial lines (e.g., “Dope and diamonds / That’s all that I want”), it was typically quite bitter and sarcastic. On Honeymoon, her evolution continues. More tender, revealing moments are featured here, and the parody that was sometimes present on her previous albums has all but fallen away.

However, there is a constant theme across all of her records: pleasure – the pursuit, acquisition, and abuse of it. Money, drugs, and sex are always present, and in an excessively glamorous light. On Honeymoon, these topics can be handled with laughable bluntness, like on the lead single, “High by the Beach”: “All I wanna do is get high by the beach / Get high by the beach, get high.” Or on “Music to Watch Boys To,” where she casts herself in a nearly-predatory role, singing of the titular boys: “Play them like guitars, you’re like one of my toys / No holds barred, I’ve been sent to destroy, yeah.”

On “Salvatore,” she sings of murder as casually as ice cream and a summer tan, accepting death from “the hand of a foreign man” with happiness.

But then take a track like “Art Deco,” where these themes are flipped on their heads. Her depictions of partying pose more as a warning than an encouragement: “Born to be wild / A little party never hurt no one, that’s why it’s all right,” she sings with an almost visible wink. And she continues:

“You’re so Art Deco, out on the floor

Shining like gunmetal, cold and unsure

Baby, you’re so ghetto, you’re looking to score

When they all say hello, you try to ignore them

‘Cause you want more (why?)

You want more (why?)

…

A little party never hurt no one

That’s what your friends say

You put your life out on the line

You’re crazy all the time”

“Art Deco” seems to act as a moment of shocking clarity on a record of irony, perhaps inspired by her previous battles with alcohol abuse. She has in the past mentioned her struggle with alcohol addiction, something that started at a very young age. Achieving sobriety in her late teenage years, she hasn’t had a drink in over decade. [2] Knowing, then, that her lyrics are penned by one who’s been sober for more than 10 years certainly shifts their implication in a different direction. The glamorization in which she couches her lyrical imagery might just be a veiled criticism. When Lana fantasizes about this life of hedonism, it’s different from her peers’ approach: it’s a mock-glamorization – or it seems to be, at least. And this is precisely the mystery I mentioned above. How much is a character – a mask – and how much is genuine?

Adding to this disconnect is her vocal delivery. She’s often conveying these lyrics in a monotonous, passionless coo, as if numb to the pleasures of which she sings, or like she never much cared for them at all. Again, it’s an entirely different style than her peers’. Perhaps she’s not as impressed with the success at her fingertips, or maybe she’s simply seen the trouble it brings. As she puts it on “God Knows I Tried,” “I’ve got nothing much to live for ever since I found my fame.”

This unassuming style, however, has a tendency to erupt into a sweeping, bone-chilling melody, soaring over the skeletal instrumentation on many of the huge choruses the tracks boast. These songs are always repeating in my mind. The subtle anxiety she exudes, the black-and-white haze of her tones and lyricism, the simultaneous grandiosity and humility of her delivery – it gets its claws in you and calls you back, time and again.

Where She Falls.

Honeymoon is a contradictory album. It’s simple and complex; funny and dark; shallow and deep. Lana’s trademark enigmatic presence is in full-swing on this record, but it shows her taking one more step away from her previous world of pop and satire. Like Ultraviolence, this is something more refined, more intense. It’s difficult to decipher. More than most artists, Del Rey stirs up questions in the listener’s mind: is the pervasive retro vibe too nostalgic for its own good? is the string section overly theatrical or eerily romantic? are her lyrics sharply ironic or simply kitschy? I can’t answer any of these questions. I only know that it works for me.

Maybe it’s not meant to be deciphered – maybe it simply is what it is, and we shouldn’t try to explain it. I suppose this is just Lana Del Rey: nothing more, nothing less. And I enjoy it very, very much. I do have a difficult time recommending her music, precisely because of that utter subjectivity surrounding her. She stands atop a spire of sorts, performing a balancing act, and it is according to the listener’s preference in which direction she falls.

It’s fitting, then, that she chose Nina Simone’s “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” as the album closer. It seems that Simone succinctly, though unintentionally, summarized the character, the perception of Lana Del Rey:

“‘Cause I’m just a soul whose intentions are good

Oh, Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood

I try so hard, don’t let me be misunderstood”