On May 20, singer-songwriter/enigmatic public figure/Americana storyteller Lana Del Rey released a trio of songs promoting her seventh album, BLUE BANISTERS (2021). Despite their utterly bonkers Picsart covers, all three singles—“Text Book,” “Wildflower Wildfire,” and the record’s title track—felt gorgeous and intricate, in line with much of Del Rey’s recent work. That’s not to say her earlier releases weren’t impressive; ULTRAVIOLENCE (2014) is still her best, most complex, and fascinating album to date.
But since the critically acclaimed NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL! (2019), Del Rey has favored a much more restrained sound. Piano arrangements, light whispers, and sparse instrumentals wrap around her smoky vocals. It’s a stark difference from the indie pop of BORN TO DIE (2012) and the cinema of HONEYMOON (2015).
And yet, on BLUE BANISTERS, Del Rey seems to parse through almost every genre and niche she’s ever worked with. Part of that is thanks to her inclusion of work from her vault—in other words, songs intended for other Del Rey albums that didn’t make the cut.
This includes tracks like “Dealer,” “Cherry Blossom,” “If You Lie Down with Me,” and “Nectar of the Gods,” all of which are reminiscent of their intended albums but still fit for the here and now. It’s a practice that seems reserved for the most prolific and distinct artists, like Prince or Bruce Springsteen, who can revisit their work and recraft it.
And that’s what Del Rey does on BLUE BANISTERS. Throughout 15 songs, the singer uses new tracks and previously unreleased gems to create a conversation of identity and home, however everchanging those concepts might be. The sounds—from the aforementioned sparse piano ballads to a hip-hop interlude, desert rock and folk—are spread gracefully across the album, encompassing Del Rey’s most notable themes and images while elaborating on their intricacies.
It’s the closest thing we’ll get to a Del Rey greatest hits album, a body of work that shines lights on the most intimate corners of its creator’s mind and artistry.
Intimate is a funny word to use with Del Rey. She is one of those artists whose social media presence simultaneously connected fans with her creative process and kept everyone at a slight distance. The past tense is important here, considering Del Rey deactivated her socials in an effort to keep a tighter circle. Her cleanse is enviable for anyone of her generation and the generations thereafter—young people who posted their work and thoughts online before they even realized the impact.
But Del Rey technically owes her fame to the internet. She struggled to gain much traction until her “Video Games” music video went viral on YouTube, leading to plenty of good (and bad) press, as well as her debut album. A decade later and Del Rey’s success is inarguable—but so is the controversy. From recently roasting critics on Twitter and posting puzzling letters on Instagram, Del Rey’s social media habits made it difficult to dissect her work in peace.
Her offline status makes listening to BLUE BANISTERS easier, although when Del Rey announced that this album told her story and “pretty much nothing more,” it became clear that the celebrity and the work could not be separated. From intimate romantic relationships and difficult family dynamics to her sister’s pregnancy and eventual birth, the album brings us in to map out details.
It’s like being with Del Rey and her closest friends at the dinner table, everyone telling stories and pouring wine while cicadas buzz in the backyard. Much of it is sobering and even traumatic— on “Dealer,” Del Rey wails, “I don’t want to live / I don’t wanna give you nothing / ‘Cause you never give me nothing back,” while on “Wildflower Wildfire,” she sings that her “father never stepped in when his wife would rage” at her.
Father and mother figures hang heavily over BLUE BANISTERS, often entering songs unannounced and leaving before we even notice them. On “Black Bathing Suit,” surely a Del Rey essential for years to come, she almost murmurs about not being friends with her mother but still loving her dad.
A lost father frames “Text Book,” the album’s opener, and prompts much of how Del Rey thinks about her relationship with a man who drives a Thunderbird just like her father. “Let’s rewrite history / I’ll do this dance with you,” she sings, craving a redo, desiring a relationship that heals an inner child’s pain.
But that pain is too deep, a wound that proves too raw on the title track. When Del Rey whispers about a man who promised he’d “come back every May,” and would give her children and take away her pain, she presents herself lonelier than ever, lost without the relationship she hoped would heal her.
Fortunately, there’re female friendships, which Del Rey relies on to help her paint her banisters in the title track’s music video. Beyond this album, the strength of sisterhood is an immediate reminder of the music video for CHEMTRAILS OVER THE COUNTRYCLUB, which features Del Rey and her girlfriends lounging by the pool before a storm brings about a coven ritual, where the women then light a car on fire and transform into wolves. Perhaps painting banisters is a part of the ritual? If so, I’d like to join this group—an ideal group of friends for a pool picnic, some witchy vibes, and home improvement.
Jokes aside, there is something healing about sisterhood on BLUE BANISTERS, a theme that culminates on the album closer “Sweet Carolina.” The song, co-written with Del Rey’s father Rob and her sister Chuck, seems dedicated to Chuck and her recently born child. With angelic vocals, Del Rey reassures that she’ll always be “closer than your next breath.” It’s a family affair, a moment dripping in smiles, light, and love.
The track also features one of the funniest lyrics Del Rey’s ever written, a line that shows her storytelling power can range from dark loneliness to wit. “You name your babe Lilac Heaven / After your iPhone 11 / ‘Crypto forever,’ screams your stupid boyfriend / Fuck you, Kevin.”
Excellent review