It's hard to pick just one standout track off Norman Fucking Rockwell!; there's the twinkling, Leonard Cohen-esque anthem "Mariners Apartment Complex," the hazy seaside hymn "Venice Bitch," the oddly captivating Sublime cover "Doin' Time." But no song on Lana Del Rey's phenomenal record conveys her artful blending of classic American songwriting with postmodern cynicism better than "The greatest." We've already understood Lana's nostalgia for the 50s, the 60s, the 70s—in her smokin'-a-pack-a-day croon, her lounge-singer swagger, her miniskirts and heavy eyelashes. But in "The greatest," we get a eulogy for what culture has gained—and more so, what it's lost—this very decade. Of course we remember the old classics, like the Beach Boys and "Kokomo," to which she fondly alludes, but we also remember the new classics: Kanye West's bad haircuts, all of our bad haircuts, great weed, Four Loko, ugly MySpace pages, the hope we once had that climate change wouldn't end humanity, and through it all, the gift of fantasy. "The greatest" is her "Life on Mars," an ode to the claustrophobia of pop culture. She almost sold her soul for rock 'n' roll, but maybe it gets one last hurrah. "The culture is lit, and if this is it‚ I had a ball," she sings with a weary smile, like she's the last one up at the New Year's party. Cheers to the apocalypse; we earned it. —Hilary Pollack