Lana Del Rey Smolders Like a West Coast Sunset

Whatever the therapist (probably imagined by me) has done for Lana Del Rey it's paying off in spades. "Born To Die" has to be one of the great buzz kill (pun not intended or worth salivating about) album titles ever. I know what mindfulness can do to a person. That said, I am happy the chamber pop songstress has opted to direct her intensity to something we can enjoy as an artistically astute collection of quirky folks. "West Coast" sweats from every pore it's got. To add to that there are two speeds to this merry-go-round. Commence the kick start drums. Lana's sort of teasing us. At first she's laying her cards out on the table. The horse trots out of the gate to enthuse us with a cocktail hour orgasm. If Lana's voice were any steamier it would disappear into the drum/guitar combo that's keeping the drinks bubbling along. It doesn't take a Freud to comprehend what "the music in you" must be. Who cares, right? Grab your zoom angle lenses, peeps. We're going to watch Miss Del Rey set the table for what's bound to be a sprinkler activating horizontal connection. Wait a minute. The show shifts gears from randy to fogged up glasses slow, slower, slowest. How ingenious. The alternating tempo does a perceptive job of illustrating what happens when love's mystery changes shapes. Any of us could view stanza four through booze colored specs. Very wobbly but noticing enough to not be too quick to deposit the foreplay on the out piie. Plenty of literary intelligence to sate sound seekers who prefer their feast on a iPod gourmet style...not whipped up to unrecognizable mush at the Mickey D's drive through window. For a brief nanosecond Spanglish language enters the realm. Anybody not so proud that they wouldn't admit to knowing about or liking Gerardo's "Rico Suave"? Yeah, I know. By today's standards that was muy cheesy but it did show off its Spanglish side openly. By comparison Lana Del Rey teases us with a blink and you missed it version. Only adds to the emerging feminine mystique Lana has done such a laudable job crafting. She's certainly done her homework on what the West Coast, past, present, and probably future is about. Icons, silver starlets, groupies, you name it. Whatever reputation it's gotten as a sordid pleasure paradise Lana revisits. "West Coast" always returns to the loose buckled music that he's possessing. So much scenery, Hollywood insider glamour. They're in their own dimension. For sure the moment is the only one that holds any sway, sway being an excellent connective tissue for me to sprinkle praise on the "sweet boy swayin'" visual. It's gentle like the breezes coming in off San Francisco. Lana skillfully fuses perfect minor chords to go with the carnal delight. Mind you in the early going she's setting up her Cubano amor for an at arm's length bond. The time spent shifting between soaking up their surroundings and burning the eye sockets off of each other is admirably equal. When Lana sightsees, you can tell because the jauntiness mirrors a tourist trying to get the deep appreciation where she can find it. The slowed down shot glass weightiness complements the curves on their chemical energy. As Lana makes plain, voyeurism has its privileges. "West Coast" is sweet nothing naughty regardless of where on the globe you're listening. Its emphasis on brainy ruminations acts as the bonus which makes it possible for Lana to remain unique in a crowd of interchangeable pop parts.