Lana Del Rey – ‘Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd’ album review

Name: Lana Del Rey - Did you know theres a tunnel under Ocean Blvd
Rating: 4

Sam Kemp

Mon 20 March 2023 0:01, UK

Lana Del Rey - Did you know there's a tunnel under Ocean Blvd

A wall of quirky motivational posters. Three Apple Mac desktops flanked by twin vases brimming with forced tulips. “Live in the moment.” Decca, Island, Polydor, EMI, Virgin, DefJam, Motown, Capitol, Bravada. A constant thoroughfare of takeaway dim-sum.

I’m waiting to be taken to the listening room. Universal Music don’t want Lana Del Rey’s latest album, Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd, to leak, so all the music writers in London have been summoned to UMG headquarters to listen, take notes and nibble free peanuts. The formality feels a little paradoxical, given Del Rey has spent the last decade railing against criticisms of her work while consistently subverting our understanding of who she is and what she represents. In that time, she’s created a powerful mystique, but with this latest album, she peels back the layers one by one.

Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd opens to a glorious semi-improvised close harmony passage featuring Melodye Perry, Pattie Howard and Shikena Jones. Their combined gospel vocals usher us into a world Del Rey fans know well: where palm trees sway in black and white, where you’re never more than two metres from a swooning femme fatale, and where famous singers are always backed by something lush and chopinesque.

Of course, it’s all a ruse. Like Del Rey herself, the album is a Russian doll, and the first track is only the first layer. For the first 20 minutes, we’re indulged with a string of poignant orchestral tracks (‘Did You Know’, ‘Sweet’, ‘A&W’) that allow Del Rey to revel in vintage tones while showing off her skill as a lyricist. Then along comes ‘Judah Smith Interlude’, and everything changes. Suddenly we’re being sucker-punched by ‘Candy Necklace’, an infectious slice of road-ready glitch-pop, which in turn gives way to the refreshingly experimental ‘Jon Batiste Interlude’, a solo piano track built on found sound from a broadway theatre performance, over which audience members’ comments and critiques are only just audible.

The audience commentary in ‘Jon Batiste Interlude’ highlights Del Rey’s fixation with the relationship between artist and critic. Throughout the album, Del Rey compares what others might regard as an alliance to a suffocating toxic relationship. “Tell me you love me,” she sings during the album’s title track. “Fuck me to death / love me until I learn to love myself”. Like all artists, she wants her creation to be accepted. However, Del Rey also fears the conformity success so often breeds. In ‘Sweet’, she reminds us of her agency. “If you want some basic bitch, go to the Beverly hill cinema”. Occasionally, Lana leads us there herself. After a poignant duet with Father John Misty, Del Rey hands us the damp flannel that is ‘Margaret’, a sickly-sweet ballad co-written with Bleachers’ Jack Antonoff. Suffice it to say, it put me right off my peanuts.

Devoted fans of Del Rey will find much to fawn over in Ocean Blvd. Diverse, nuanced and interrogative, it reminds us that mainstream pop doesn’t have to be apathetic and easily digestible. It can also be conceptual, exploratory and multifaceted. Certain songs feel a little formulaic and forced, but there’s always something subversive or life-affirming lurking around the corner. While album highlights like ‘Fingertips’, ‘Paris, Texas’ and ‘Let The Light In’ sees Del Rey excavate emotional grandeur from the most transient moments, floor-fillers such as ‘Taco Truck x VB’ and ‘Candy Necklace’ remind us to seek the plurality in ourselves. We are not individuals but a patchwork of intersecting personalities. We may appear simple, but we all contain hidden depths.