Lana Del Rey Redeems Herself

Considering the chilly critical reception that Lana Del Rey received for her 2012 debut, Born to Die, it's a little baffling that her follow-up album has been heralded with so much hype and anticipation.

I'm not quite sure how the singer managed to retain credibility after her infamously terrible appearance on Saturday Night Live -- Ashleigh Simpson didn't have nearly so much luck -- but here's the really surprising part: the newly released Ultraviolence is actually pretty damn appealing.

The album succeeds because of Lizzie Grant's unwavering commitment to her musical persona. Lana Del Rey is a doomed damsel, equal parts elegant and seedy, who sings about her vice-filled lifestyle with a drug-blurred sense of detachment. Her lyrics are melancholic and sometimes disturbing, but the cinematically swooping arrangements imbue the songs with a sense of Old Hollywood grandeur. Her music videos, meanwhile, show her canoodling with much older men and cavorting with biker gangs.

A quick scan of Ultraviolence's tracklist will give you a fairly good idea of where Del Rey is coming from, since song titles include "Cruel World," "Sad Girl," "Pretty When You Cry," "Money Power Glory," "Fucked My Way Up to the Top" and "The Other Women" (the last of those is a cover of a tune sung by Nina Simone).

These ballads drift by in a narcotic haze while the singer slurs, purrs, and makes self-destruction sound oh so appealing. The album was produced by Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys, and his organic, live-band approach is the perfect complement to the vintage-sounding material.

The way Del Rey glamourizes her lifestyle is bound to make some listeners feel uncomfortable. The title track is particularly unsettling, as she sings about an abusive relationship and coos, "He hit me and it felt like a kiss."

I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to take away from Ultraviolence. I don't know to what extent Lizzie Grant believes what she sings about as Lana Del Rey, or if she actually leads the romantically depraved lifestyle she describes. In a recent interview with The Guardian, she referred to her life as "a really fucked-up movie," and declared, "I wish I was dead." She also claimed that depictions of her romping around the backcountry with biker gangs were autobiographical.

Is this interview (and others like it) an extension of the character? Is Del Rey promoting her persona or is it intended as a cautionary tale? Is this all simply artistic expression, made without regard for how it will be interpreted?

I'm not sure, but when reggae-inflected drum fills lead in the beautifully woozy "West Coast" -- a song that downshifts even further during its droopy-eyed chorus -- it's difficult to deny the wounded beauty of Del Rey's aesthetic.