Complex magazine features Lana Del Rey, last week's sacrificial lamb, on the cover of their February/March issue and she looks exactly as you would expect her to look. She is a sexy, wet, pouty vintage movie poster. Like a faded French ad you would put in your bathroom if you were 21. The image is actually a great visual response to last week's issues; it is a strong look-at-me-I'm-still-standing-despite-all-you-mean-'ol-raindrops-pouring-down-on-my-talentless-parade, statement.
Fine. That is all just fine. Like all things Lana Del Rey, it is only when she opens her mouth that disaster ensues. When asked about her recent performances, she said:
My real fans know I'm not a showstopper on stage...I don't have fucking circus lights. I just don't care. My fans are there because they want to hear the record live. Everyone else is just there to see what happens.
It is incredible that a creature so perfectly engineered to reflect a certain...well, uh, aesthetic, cannot hold it together when put in front of a camera of any kind. Lana, if you don't care that you are awful, why should we listen to you? She is a mess. Where in god's name is this girl's PR team? It seems that they have all abandoned ship.
Ah but the doomed S.S. Lana forges on, playing the self-effacement card:
"Shut up, shut up," she said when the crowd's applause seemed to last too long, as if unwilling to let the cheers wash over her. "If I was dope I wouldn't have said, ‘Shut up,'" she answered flatly.
Screeech. Throw this sloppy jalopy (last transportation metaphor, I promise) in reverse and head home. At this point, we just want to see a warm and matronly guidance counselor step in and calmly guide her away from the invasive microphones and flashing bulbs. Tell her, "You is kind. You is smart. You is important." And stop admitting to everyone that you are terrible, talentless, and absolutely devoid of any stage presence whatsoever. Because you are taking all of the fun out of it.