As one, Elizabeth Woolridge Grant, embarks upon year thirty-four (on June 21, much to the chagrin of Geminis everywhere who recently had to reconcile with surrendering her to the Cancer realm), it is only appropriate that her birthday should fall upon a Friday. Almost as appropriate as when she turned thirty on Father’s Day…you know, because of her whole Daddy shtick and becoming an age not quite so suitable for Lolita cachet anymore. Not just because, as she once infamously sang on “Born to Die,” she feels so alone on a Friday night but because so many of her lyrics speak to the unshakeable sadness that comes with attending a party of any kind. Particularly when one is as sentient and philosophical as Del Rey. Thus, what follows is an essential playlist for those who wish they hadn’t made the mistake of leaving their house in yet another futile attempt at “revelry.”
“Cruel World”: As far as macabre depictions of a party scene go, the first track off of 2014’s Ultraviolence essentially takes the cake. From the moment Del Rey almost slurringly states, “Got my little red party dress on/Everybody knows that I’m the best I’m crazy/Get a little bit of Bourbon in ‘ya/Get a little bit suburban and go crazy,” she seamlessly inveigles us to forage through our liquor cabinet and join in her Misery, Party of One aura.
“God Knows I Tried”: A somber and moody psychedelic intro punctuates the existential moans of Del Rey before she paints the scene, “Sometimes I wake up in the morning to red, blue and yellow skies/It’s so crazy I could drink it like tequila sunrise.” It would seem that she starts her day out doing just that as she segues into the description, “Put on that Hotel California/Dance around like I’m insane/I feel free when I see no one and nobody knows my name.” Adding to the motif of being a solo partier, dancing to music alone while drunk, is the idea that no song by the Eagles ever got any party started. The impression that she’s a low-functioning alcoholic who wakes up every morning to see more colors than Pocahontas ever did further corroborates that life is one endless sad party when you’ve got no one to identify with.
“Body Electric”: Barring the fact that no “grand” party ever took place at Grand Ole Opry, the image of Del Rey in a younger, therefore more carefree (though a carefreeness still colored in jade) state comes across as she croons, “We get down every Friday night/Dancin’ and grindin’ in the pale moonlight/Grand Ole Opry, feelin’ alright.” Emphasis on the word “alright.” Not great, fantastic or anything else superlative that most movies and songs about partying would like to have one believe is a possibility with enough inebriation. But no, in truth, the best one can hope for in taking the risk at interaction with others is merely the feeling of being “alright.” Elsewhere in the song, a sense of resigned doom pervades as Del Rey shrugs, “Mary prays the rosary for my broken mind.” A mind that can only be mended with consciousness-altering substances. If other people happen to be there, well, fine.
“Gods and Monsters”: Apart from its visual associations with Lana Del Rey as a stripper in the near thirty-minute video for 2013’s Tropico (which additionally featured “Body Electric” and “Bel Air,” also from the Paradise EP), “Gods and Monsters” is the ideal track to punctuate a night of La Dolce Vita-esque debauchery and meaninglessness. In between insisting, “You got that medicine I need: fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly” and “Dope, shoot it up straight to the heart please/I don’t really wanna know what’s good for me/ God’s dead/I said, ‘Baby that’s alright with me,'” Del Rey captures the nihilistic flavor of what it means to attempt adopting any sort of “party spirit” in the twenty-first century.
“Cherry”: As though her voice was tailor-made to embody the vocal personification of being drunk and resigned, “Cherry” is a lovelorn ditty that offers a very succinct aphorism in describing why people come to drink so heavily in the first place: “Love…it’s like smiling when the firing squad’s against you/And you just stay lined up.” And if one is going to numb some of the pain of those bullets, she’s going to need vats and vats of vodka. Or, in this case, Lana’s “cherries and wine/rosemary and thyme”–a special homeopathic, organic blend of wine, one imagines.
“Heroin”: Another fixture on the Lust for Life album, the Manson-tinged darkness of “Heroin” takes on a simultaneously reverent and cautionary tone as Del Rey channels her own inner heroin addict with, “I’m flyin’ to the moon again, dreamin’ about heroin/How it gave you everything and took your life away.” Considering the drug is ultimately favored for use on one’s own (lest he be judged derogatorily as a “junkie” by others), Del Rey’s decision to make it a central focus of an entire song is in keeping with her penchant for lone partying (in addition to having an ex die of an overdose). That, or being the sad drunk in the corner who would prefer not to interact with anyone at the fête.
“This Is What Makes Us Girls”: One of the few light-hearted portraits of partying, Del Rey turns the narrative of “This Is What Makes Us Girls” into a cautionary tale filled with nostalgia and regret. Based on her own experience of being banished to boarding school after her parents realized their Catholic colleen was getting a little too precocious too quickly, we’re given the rueful lyric, “And that’s where the beginning of the end begun/Everybody knew that we had too much fun/We were skipping school and drinking on the job.” It’s certainly the most sociable party song amid Del Rey’s canon. Likely because with youth comes the naivety of believing you need to drink with others in order to enjoy it.
“Brooklyn Baby”: Before Del Rey traded in her tragic-by-choice persona for the hippie-dippy L.A. one that shows no signs of slowing down anytime soon, she was a self-declared “Brooklyn Baby” through and through. As such, it could be no other sonic aura than the languid yet arrogant tone that comes with being just another piece of hipster scum. Unashamed to admit, “I’ve got feathers in my hair/I get high on hydroponic weed.” So alas, the California migration was always inevitable, for a girl must be isolated in the comfort of her own home to truly enjoy her weed. Not in the overcrowded bars of some Brooklyn faux “dive.”
“Sad Girl”: As though told from the perspective of Sugar Kane, Marilyn Monroe’s seminal character in Some Like It Hot, the lamentation of a girl forced to engage in the role of side chick is rife for those who have ever played the part of tragic mistress. “His Bonnie on the side.” A Bonnie who could definitely be found drinking alone at some godforsaken roadhouse.
“Beautiful People Beautiful Problems”: While not exactly a song to evoke any notions of a “rager,” there is something about the Stevie Nicks-featuring “Beautiful People Beautiful Problems” that smacks of being featured during a hollow partying scene filled with rich and accordingly bored people in a Sofia Coppola movie (maybe The Bling Ring, or Marie Antoinette).
“Born to Die”: The song that launched a thousand memes set to moody black and white photos, the most iconic (and resonant to misanthropes everywhere) lyric remains, “I feel so alone on a Friday night.” Hopefully that’s not the case for Del Rey this year, as she blows out her candles in the getting drunk world capital, Dublin.
