When Lana Del Rey burst into the music scene in 2011, she captivated the world with her striking persona, unique sound and bold look. She was a different kind of pop star, edgier than the typical innocent ingenue and unapologetically melancholy.
She was, for lack of better words, abrasive or hard to digest. She often caused controversy, like when she told an interviewer, “I wish I was dead already,” or wrote the lyrics “He hit me and it felt like a kiss.”
Regardless of criticism, fans quickly fell in love with not only her music but also her identity and look. She was glamorous, embodying a vintage Americana aesthetic with big Priscilla Presley-esque hair, ebbing and flowing between an old Hollywood starlet, a ’50s rebel and a ’60s beat poet.
At the same time, she was the very antithesis of glamour — crooning about toxic affairs with sketchy older men, spiraling into hard drugs and running with biker gangs. She was dubbed a “gangsta Nancy Sinatra” and a “Lolita lost in the hood.” She was a beautiful wreck, a glorious disaster, a terrible role model — and yet magnetic, effortlessly cool and utterly mesmerizing.
But that was over a decade ago. Today, Del Rey is 39, and the “bad girl” anthems of her youth have given way to songs about settling down, marriage and dreams of a quiet life in the countryside. She has traded in cinematic pop songs for stripped-down country ballads. It’s a stark departure from the music that made her iconic, and while her new music, such as her two latest singles “Bluebird” and “Henry, come on,” are beautiful, they don’t quite feel like her — or at least the version of her I romanticized in my head.
Her sixth studio album, “Norman Fucking Rockwell!,” felt like the grand finale of the Del Rey we knew — a matured, but still unmistakably authentic, evolution of her iconic persona. But somewhere between this album and her next, “Chemtrails Over The Country Club,” I believe the character of Del Rey died and Elizabeth Grant — her real name — stepped into the spotlight.
Del Rey, or Grant, recently sang at Stagecoach, a festival dedicated to country music. She took to the stage with her hair done up like a 1950s housewife, amid a set that resembled a little house on the prairie. She sang about her new marriage and life in the Louisiana Bayou and seemed far more comfortable than she had performing live at festivals in the past.
It’s clear that she has calmed down and seems far happier than the brooding, sad starlet she used to be. Still, for fans like me, there’s a bittersweetness in accepting that she’ll likely never create another “Born To Die” or “Ultraviolence” and, of course, she is not obligated to. After all, she’s nearing 40, and it would be a little strange if she were still singing about being a sugar baby.
But even though I can respect the artist she’s become, I find myself nostalgically clinging to the haunting beauty of who she once was.
The problem with having a stage persona is that an artist becomes forever tied to something that isn’t really them — Lady Gaga is a character made by Stefani Germanotta, Chappell Roan by Kayleigh Amstutz and Del Rey by Elizabeth Grant. When an artist drops or alters a stage persona, fans are likely to be disappointed — they fell in love with the music of Charli XCX, not Charlotte Aitchison.
Del Rey would probably dispute my assertion that she’s a character, even tweeting in 2019, “Never had a persona. Never needed one. Never will.” I think she rejects this because she sees it as yet another way to call her fake.
But Del Rey isn’t Del Rey without being a bit contradictory. Just two years before that tweet, she told Paper magazine, “I know that if I had more of a persona [before], I have less of one now. And I think it comes down to getting a little older. Maybe I needed a stronger look or something to lean on then.”
While I believe Del Rey is, for the most part, a stage identity regardless of what she says, there’s no denying that her real-life experiences inform her music. Having a persona doesn’t make an artist inauthentic — it’s still a creation, something intentionally built, shaped and shared with the world. There may be no “real” Del Rey — as far as birth certificates go — but the impact she’s had, the world she built and the devoted fanbase she inspired are undeniably real.
To me, Elizabeth Grant is the person, and Lana Del Rey is the product. Some fans insist that true supporters should embrace every evolution without question, but I see it differently. It’s perfectly natural to use a product, love it, outgrow it, even dislike it at times or to feel a sense of loss when its formula changes. Missing the spark and dark glamour of her earlier music doesn’t make me any less of a fan.
I’m genuinely happy that Elizabeth Grant has found peace, but I also think it’s okay to miss the melancholy magic that Lana Del Rey once embodied. I’m excited to see where her artistry goes next, but I’m also allowing myself to mourn the passing of her old persona.
Jordan Ori is a junior majoring in English and is a Pipe Dream Opinions intern.
Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.