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You’d be hard pressed to find any song on which Del Rey reveals an interiority or figures herself as anything more complex than an ice-cream-cone-licking object of male desire (a line in “Blue Jeans”, “I will love you till the end of time/ I would wait a million years,” sums up about 65% of the album’s lyrical content).
For all of its coos about love and devotion, it’s the album equivalent of a faked orgasm— a collection of torch songs with no fire.
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Pitchfork Review of Lana Del Rey’s “Born To Die” (via dustbowldance)
If Pitchfork wants to make you its bitch, it will make you its bitch.
(via manicbotanic)
