Lana del rey sexy photoshoot
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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.”įor 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. If it’s all a show, well, it’s a good one. There’s a grace to the way she chain-smokes Parliaments and says “fuck” when she chips one of her pointed purple acrylic nails. She has perfect posture and crosses her legs neatly. 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. 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. 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. And some of her old critics have changed their tune.
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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. 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. 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. 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. Her arrival also attracted visceral criticism. 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. Only four albums released in 2012 outsold Born to Die, which went platinum in the U.S. 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. “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. Where many of her contemporaries reveled in little-known subcultures and outsider artists, Del Rey went for icons. 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. On her 2012 breakthrough, Born to Die, Del Rey cast herself as a tragic pop star from a bygone era.
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In 2014, no artist embraces both that world’s intoxicating glow and frayed seams more acutely than Lana Del Rey. 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. Red carpets, unbridled opulence, and the kind of elegance that looks amazing in high-contrast black-and-white photographs are its marrow. Satin gowns, fast cars, pills, and parties are the lifeblood of American glamour.