Let’s be serious, I’ve been taught to hate Lana Del Rey. Accusations of cynical marketing, in authenticity, surgery speculation and an endless supply of daddy’s money left a distaste before I even heard what a young lady called Elizabeth Grant from Lake Placid in New York state had to say. But YouTube statistics and a fierce online frenzy of divided public opinion aside, what we have is an album from an artist behind one of the most beautiful pop songs in recent years.

Such was the power of ‘Video Games’, with its stunning and eerie ability to melt the soul. It made her rise to success inevitable, and the anticipation of her debut album ever-more intense.

So when looking at Born To Die, all eyes are on whether she can follow on from such a rare winner. The result? Although in parts the album comes across a bit wet and draining—‘Lucky Ones’ and ‘Million Dollar Man’ need skipping—it shows enough moments of brilliance to silence her hungry cynics.

Aside from both the album’s grand production—comparisons to The National aren’t far away—and her deliciously stoned delivery, which often slips between breathless ecstasy to ditsy mimicking, what’s most gripping about this debut is Del Rey’s songwriting.

Her takes on different Hollywood archetypes of American feminity make for an intelligent and ambitious listen. The stereotypes don’t seem to far from her own situation: it’s as if she new how we would react to her own character, and made a collection of music to suit.

The sinister slant she gives her various and doomed characters, like on second single ‘Born To Die’, ‘Off To The Races’ and ‘National Anthem’—on the latter she actually becomes the tainted American Dream—is what will separate her from her squeeky, ‘happy’ pop peers. It makes Born To Die somber, and yet spellbindingly uplifting.

Words Ali Raymond