Reveiw: Lana Del Rey at NYC's Irving Plaza

FROM MK: Please welcome PopBytes's newest contributor, Bruce Russo Jr.! We have been friends for quite some time on Twitter, and he also happens to hail from Long Island like myself. I loved his take on Lana Del Rey's NYC shows a few weeks ago, and I thought he would be a great addition to Team PopBytes! Follow Bruce on Twitter: @octoberxswimmer and visit his website, A Place to Bury My Thoughts. It happened. It really happened. The enchanting songstress Lana Del Rey finally serenaded me. If you are unaware of my intense affections for said artist, you should refer to my pseudo-manifesto "Hate to Love: Deconstructing Lana Del Rey." Or you could scroll through my Facebook wall and read how I salivate over everything she releases. Whether it is a poster for a new music video or a paparazzi shot of her with Marilyn Manson. But within that essay, I explain my (dramatic) relationship to Lana Del Rey. I document all the highs and lows of our affair. I didn't always love Lana Del Rey. I wrestled with it. She's a crafty and cunning bitch. She broke my heart with "Video Games" last summer. I couldn't get enough of her deep drawl. It was on repeat repeat repeat. I blasted it in the car for friends with the windows rolled down. A song you wouldn't correlate rolling down your windows for but for me it was. It was a melancholic anthem. It was my jam. I listened to it in my apartment from my laptop. It was on every playlist and mixtape for months. It was staggering how she managed to craft a song that effortlessly pulled at every heartstring attached to that mysterious beating organ in my chest. I was an avid fan. I jumped on that ship as it was embarking from the shore. Then the news of a former version of Lana Del Rey existed and it broke all over the internet. Lizzy Grant. The rumors of plastic surgery, a millionaire father who bought her a record contract with a major record label, etc. I felt cheated, duped and deceived. And so did many other people. There were thousands of think pieces on so many sites, blogs, magazines and newspapers. It took months for me to heal those wounds. Autumn came along and she played Bowery Ballroom in New York City. I knew all about the show but I was defiant in my revulsion towards her. She hurt me. I refused to give her a penny from the pocket of my blue jeans. She wounded me in a way only a lover could. Not that I was romantically involved with her, though on occasion I did imagine a very vivid romance with her. I connected with her, to her music. I dropped my guard for her. I let her in. The sentiment of "Video Games" was so relatable. She crafted a song sad New York boys like me could genuinely connect with. Alienated. Alone. Melancholic. Sad. Depressed. Hurt by ex-boyfriends, etc. The fact that she could convey all of these emotions and still look so good? She's every flawed character in those indie dramas. She was every French New Wave actress from the 1960s. The protagonist in a film or novel you admired and adored. Beautiful yet afflicted with a deep sadness. A depression. Whether this sadness commenced internally or externally, it didn't matter. A depraved childhood or a having a junkie for a lover. It was the consequences they wore on their sleeves that mattered. Literally. Dressed immaculately. Makeup so flawless. Hair, locks of it flowing down on bare shoulders. They pouted. She pouted. Lana Del Rey crafted this image of a doomed, scorned, antihero vixen. She sold this narrative in her songs, in her style and in her music videos. Unlike pop stars of the moment, like Lady Gaga or Katy Perry who are looking to shock with spectacle and stuck-in-your-head-tv-jingle- like melodies, Lana Del Rey was crafting something that seemed so much more "authentic." She offered something different. But it's this authenticity that was (and still is) being attacked and criticized. Even to this day, I have not fully forgiven Lana Del Rey. Nor has she really confronted these criticisms. There was no interview with Barbara Walters on 20/20 where Lana Del Rey came clean about her past and the involvement (or lack thereof) of her father or Interscope Records in crafting this impeccable self image. She may have had a number one record in a lot of countries and landed a gig on SNL, but she hasn't reached a level of fame to warrant an interview with someone like Barbara Walters. Honestly, I don't think she wants that level of fame and neither do I want that for her. She's in a perfect space right now. Just famous enough but she can still get by walking in Manhattan without being noticed. I realized I wasn't going to get answers about her past. This isn't how Lana Del Rey operates. She seems to exist in this fictional realm of reality, where nothing matters. She seems to have weaved a world of nostalgia and beauty. If she remains doe-eyed and gorgeous and stays quiet, perhaps the naysayers will subside. This is exactly what Lana Del Rey did. After she "bombed" on Saturday Night Live (which I would refute) she went quiet. She cancelled her scheduled show at SXSW; a show I was really looking forward to in Austin. She continued to tour Europe where she was more well received. She played small venues there, even accepting an award at the BRIT Awards. She did some "meet and greets" at local record stores on the west coast. She canceled gig after gig. The latest one in Tokyo due to supposed "exhaustion," which was only a few days before her first night of three shows at the El Rey Theatre in Los Angeles. I realized I just had to let it go. She released Born to Die and it was everything I ever wanted from her. The 60s drawl, the hip-hop rhymes. The trip-hop lounge production, the slight dubstep electronic swarming beats. On record, she was the artist I always wanted. A songstress that can balance the fine line between "indie" and pop. She has the (financial) support of a superstar like Gaga. She's got a distinctive look and voice. Comparable to someone like Amy Winehouse. The narrative Lana Del Rey has crafted is similar to the narrative of Amy Winehouse. But there was something more genuine, more authentic about the woes of Amy Winehouse. She lived and breathed that narrative on and off stage. Where have we seen Lana Del Rey drunk and falling down in the tabloids? She sings of doing party favors, getting high and loving bad boys that may or may not have died on her. But all I see offstage is a good stylist, an innocent young looking face, and her arm around older famous men (Marilyn Manson, Steven Tyler, Axl Rose). Maybe it's too soon to see her descent in the tabloids. Perhaps she has a great publicist. A publicist similar to Gaga's who seems they would cut throats if a (true) story was leaked. Gaga has kept her demons out of the public eye better than any pop star I know. So here we are. June 7th 2012. Lana Del Rey is playing the first of three sold-out shows at New York City's Irving Plaza. She just played three dates at the infamous El Rey Theatre in Los Angeles. I vicariously went to these shows, while reading my timeline on Twitter. I had a few friends live-tweeting their experiences. Since she canceled her Tokyo show just days before her first show in Los Angeles, I was terrified she was going to cancel her residencies in Los Angeles and New York. But her "exhaustion" must have turned into replenishment, because she showed up to all three dates in Los Angeles and each show seemed to go splendidly. The Boy meets Jenna and I in Union Square. Jenna and I have already walked past Irving Plaza to check out the scene. There were already fans/little monsters lined up outside the venue. This is when it first hit me. The butterflies. The moths in the stomach. I haven't loved an artist this much since Lady Gaga.* Since I missed out on her performance at Bowery Ballroom, I've been waiting for her to play New York City again. For a second I contemplated trying to get into her SNL gig but the thought of all those Harry Potter fans there for Daniel Radcliffe who was hosting the episode kept me away. I had several months to study/analzye/love Born to Die. I fell hard for her record. Yes, I was listening to demos of most of those songs months before that, but there's nothing like a produced studio track. With the exception of "National Anthem," I enjoy the xanaxed production on all the songs. The album had a cohesive feel; the narrative was pulled together and no longer fraying at its edges. Some of the demo versions of her songs seemed so disparate. I wondered what thesis she wanted to execute. On the album, she found a way to incorporate all her sounds. If only, the CD booklet came with footnotes and citations my respect for Lana Del Rey as an artist would increase. Her influences and inspirations are not hidden, but someone unfamiliar with particular genres of music and cultural movements might mistaken her narrative as completely original. And Lana Del Rey is so sly with this. So much is almost seems like forgery. She incorporates her own image within these homages to the past in her "vintage" short films and music videos. Her whole narrative almost seems pastiche until you hear the hip-hop beat, to remind you it's current, it's original, it's incorporating genres not usually heard together. That you are listening to something new and possibly groundbreaking. We walk over to Irving Plaza and the line is now wrapped around the block. It's not ridiculously long. But I still wonder how all of these people are going to fit into this relatively small venue. Seeing Lana Del Rey's name on the marquee of this venue gives me goosebumps. I don't know how many times I've been to Irving Plaza. From bands like Our Lady Peace, Goldfinger, Lords of Acid, Alkaline Trio, Dashboard Confessional, MxPx, The Killers, Rainer Maria, Placebo, Modest Mouse and most recently The Promise Ring. It's such an intimate venue, one of my favorites in New York City. We find the end of the line and I'm feeling nauseous not knowing what to expect when Lana Del Rey gets on stage. A gaggle of gays get on line just behind us. I recognize one of them. A friend of friend in New York. A friend of a friend in Austin. I already re-introduced myself to this friend of a friend in Austin during SXSW, and I wasn't going to do it again in New York. In Austin we joked about hanging out in New York since he was moving to Greenpoint in a few months from Baltimore. He's internet famous but I won't disclose how here. The boys he is with are those obnoxious types of gays who brag about traveling for work by complaining how horrible it is that they have to go to Spain, Montreal, or Paris. At one point they are talking about Azealia Banks' Mermaid Ball that happened a few nights prior, which coincidentally me, The Boy and Jenna all attended. Then Friend of a Friend talks about an Elite Gymnastics show I didn't even hear about and I had to intrude their conversation. Friend of a Friend doesn't (verbally) acknowledge knowing me and avoids that awkward conversation. Which was okay because I didn't want to have that conversation anyway. I was too nervous about the show to even form complete thoughts. We are being let into the venue. We show our IDs. Get drink bracelets. I order the biggest can of beer so I never have to leave my spot in the crowd. The can is so cold, I am volleying it between both my hands. I'm getting anxious as the venue fills up with more and more people. There is quite an array of people. There are so many gays. There are so many couples. Ages are all over the place. I see older gentlemen and I see what seems like teenagers. On stage there seems to be a forest. Hedges. Foliage. Bushes. Trees. It's rather bizarre to see such an elaborate "set" at such a small venue. Irving Plaza is where successful bands go to play an intimate set, without theatrics. But the garden on stage is welcoming and serene. It doesn't seem theatrical. Frank Sinatra is being played over the sound system. I'm doing the best I can to document my experiences through Twitter and Facebook which I'm actually referring to as I write this. Isn't that what good writers/journalists do? It's easy during the opening act Zebra Katz because I'm not much of a fan. Jenna and I investigated a little before we got into Manhattan. It sounds like spoken word drag over electronic beats. They play an annoying song titled "Hipster" where they actually spell out Brooklyn. Gross. The female singer in this duo has old lady neck. The last song was actually not bad. The crowd seems to be into it. I wonder why Lana Del Rey chose this act to open up for her. I've never heard of them but Yelle tweeted about them recently. They have 40,000 views or so on YouTube. They must have some kind of following. They look bizarre on a stage with all the shrubbery. Their sound is very artificial and "urban" if you will. An organic natural setting seems off. I realize this is a side of Lana Del Rey that the "world at large" doesn't know about. The hip-hop beats. The trip-hop vibe. It's all part of the mlange that Lana Del Rey has crafted for herself. The "world at large" hears "Video Games" and think they have her pegged. This is why I think her team/management/record label is marketing her all wrong. Stop performing "Video Games" on every Late Night Talk Show! But more on this a little later because I believe the next chapter in the Lana Del Rey narrative is about to begin. Zebra Katz play a short 20 minute set. They leave the stage and my heart begins to race thinking about Lana Del Rey being 20-30 feet away from me. I've watched almost every live television performance she has ever done. I've seen her doll-faced and pouty in all her videos. She's has always been framed for me. By a television, computer screen or phone. Like a moving piece of art. Could this impeccable image translate in The Real World? Two minutes after 10pm Lana Del Rey takes the stage at Irving Plaza. Images we have been accustomed to since the first incarnation of Lana Del Rey were projected on a screen behind her. Clips of Elvis. Clips of her looking beautiful, elegant, seductive, model-esque. Retro-nostalgia. The crowd screams for her. A reaction I was not anticipating. It was overwhelming and this wave of excitement passed through me. These were real genuine fans. I was worried the audience was going to be filled with doubters and hecklers. With the exception of a few girls in the crowd looking at me weird when I threw my hands Up in the Air during "Summertime Sadness," it seemed everyone was genuinely into it. It wasn't what I imagined. It's like every time Courtney Love and/or Hole plays a show. Half the audience are there for the spectacle. Waiting for Courtney to say something she'll regret or hit a security guard with a guitar because he was messing with a fan. I thought half of the audience at Lana Del Rey was waiting for her vocals to go off key or to hear her mess up lyrics. I thought they were waiting for her signature twirls which have become internet memes. Her nervousness has become a running joke. But it seemed all of Irving Plaza were there to support her, to love her. It felt good to just let go in the company of solid fans. I've spent the last year defending her relentlessly. I too, suffered from her seeming deception. A capitalistic major label artist crafted, written and sold to the "alternative" class as an "indie" artist. We feel we are smarter than that. That we are aware when we are being manipulated. Her origin story is filled with holes. It doesn't help that her father is a successful millionaire either. But I gave all that up. I let the songs stand for themselves. I allowed Lizzy Grant to be whoever she wanted to be. Lana Del Rey. May Jailer. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Her songs rip through me. Who cares if she only co-wrote all of the songs on her album. It felt so good to be in a venue filled with people just like me, who defended her endlessly on Twitter and Facebook too. We had to have conversation after conversation with friends arguing why they should give her a chance, or a second one. I talked honestly about my tribulations with her. How she seemingly deceived me and how awful it felt when she was portraying a sadness I could relate to. But realizing this sadness was possibly a masquerade, a fable, a tenet or precept in the lore of Lana Del Rey. These fans have been through it all with her. Just like me. The cheers for her were thunderous and she heard it. She almost seemed surprised by the welcoming response. Before she even started singing her first song "Blue Jeans," she playfully stuck her tongue out in response to the cheering, in her playful Lolita-type way only she could get away with. I was officially smitten. She looked otherworldly. Even in person. Beautiful. A short white dress girls couldn't get away with wearing in high school. Her hair "up all real big beauty queen style" with what looked like two blue jays in her hair. She looked coquettish yet sophisticated. She looked clean and elegant yet provocative. She looked like she was pulled straight out of those vignettes that were being projected behind her. She really was able to translate this impeccable image into ...

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