‘Blue Banisters’: Lana Del Rey reminds us that she is still in charge of her narrative

Photo by Tara Natarajan

Singer-songwriter Lana del Rey’s musical world has always portrayed fantasies set in past eras. Her most iconic albums, the baroque pop “Born to Die” and the cinematic “Ultraviolence,” are bathed in the longing glows of Americana motifs and the tragic glamor of bad boys and sad girls. Her own experiences were previously conveyed solely through convoluted metaphors and adopted personas — the aloof, enigmatic Lizzy Grant of her earliest works, the despairing and codependent abuse victim in “Ultraviolence” and the seductive bohemian beauty in “Lust for Life.” 

Del Rey’s brand of lyricism, although idiosyncratic, is mired in a very specific aesthetic of unattainable exoticism and stylish cinematic fantasy. Her reluctance to sing about herself and the present provides a sense of escapism. Her songs have always been unique, precisely because of their intangibility and detachment from the here and now.

“Blue Banisters,” however, smashes expectations with a gentle ferocity. For the first time, Del Rey tells her own story, piecing together tracks that document family, friendship, love and home into what is akin to a scrapbook of memories. 

The singer’s longtime collaborator, producer Jack Antonoff, did not work on this album, which could explain why the content of the songs changed remarkably from her previous work. 

The album opens with “Text Book,” a track that explains the all-too-familiar theme of daddy issues. 

“You’ve got a Thunderbird / My daddy had one too,” she reminisces. “God, I wish I was with my father.” 

Del Rey enunciates the link between an absentee father and her desire for older, toxic and domineering men, something she has previously expressed in songs like “Ride” from 2012’s EP “Paradise,” but never explicated. 

The next two tracks are piano ballads “Blue Banisters” and “Arcadia.” The titular track is a loving homage to female friendship, while the latter is a self-referential ode to Los Angeles, a place that Del Rey has frequently referenced in much of her work. 

With Del Rey tenderly singing “In Arcadia, Arcadia / All roads that lead to you as integral to me as arteries,” she emphasizes the personal narrative of the album through her own stories. The beauty and musicality isn’t lost — Del Rey’s voice is pristine without its usual stylized quiver, and the melody is gentle, quiet and melancholy. It is a love song in every sense, dedicated to a place that seems like home. 

“Black Bathing Suit” is filled with references about the past two years. The opening verse, “​​Grenadine quarantine, I like you a lot / It’s LA, ‘Hey’ on Zoom, Target parking lot / And if this is the end, I want a boyfriend / Someone to eat ice cream with, and watch television,” is possibly the first time Del Rey has spoken with such clarity and detail on the present with lyrics about her quarantine experience, resonating with her millions of listeners who spent the last year and a half similarly. 

Her own vulnerability and loneliness is highlighted by the simple things she looks for in companionship: someone to eat ice cream and watch television with. These descriptors are far detached from the glamorous and toxic relationships abundant in her previous work, like “Ultraviolet.”

“Dealer” is a dreamy, breathy duet with the Last Shadow Puppets frontman Miles Kane, in which Del Rey’s cool composure is interrupted by frustrated wails of pent-up energy. It is followed by the delicate “Wildflower Wildfire,” an introspective and philosophical track that is possibly the most reflective on the album. It alludes to an idea Del Rey has never explored: love’s fleeting nature. It shows an evolution from her previous attachment to love and fulfillment from a man to a stronger sense of independence. 

 My personal favorites are the soft, acoustic-guitar-driven “Nectar of the Gods” and the delicate ballad “Cherry Blossom.” Both tracks show Del Rey at her most vulnerable, sharing parts of her history in a gentle way akin to opening old letters. In “Cherry Blossom,” she muses, “I push you high / Cherry blossom on your sycamore tree / What you don’t tell no one, you can tell me.” Del Rey’s introspections are intimate, unlocking a door for listeners to experience the singer’s truest sense of love, free of the fictional lovers she often elucidates. 

The album closes with “Sweet Carolina,” a tender love letter to the singer’s unborn niece — the song was co-written with her father Rob Grant and her brother Chuck Grant. Peppered with humorously random references to the lilac iPhone 11 and cryptocurrency, this piece once again time-stamps the album to the present. A gentle closing lullaby leaves the listener with a peaceful feeling of closure, in contrast to the ephemeral and fleeting imagery of euphoria Del Rey’s songs often invoke. 

It is a tasteful final song, considering that this entire album is Del Rey’s statement about her story and her legacy — and “Sweet Carolina” is a song addressed to the next generation of Del Rey’s family. For a singer whose lyricism has always been defined by toxic relationships with domineering men, “Sweet Carolina” is a simple yet poignant illustration of the purest and most innocent kind of love — a family’s love for a child. 

“Blue Banisters” is an impressive experiment in breaking boundaries of her music and flexing her songwriting and production muscles, but it lacks the sublime, enchanting allure of her previous records “Born to Die” and “Norman F*cking Rockwell.” 

When it comes to the musicality of the album, Del Rey falls back into the same kind of sound she has always used. While this does give listeners a sense of familiarity and amounts to less of a risk for the artist, it would have been even more impressive if Del Rey had experimented with different musical styles to match her radically different songwriting rather than falling back to her usual stylistic choices. The album is an ambitious effort but doesn’t completely fulfill its enormous potential. 

Despite this, it flawlessly conveys the resounding message that Del Rey is a real and present woman behind the mesh mask of old-school American glamor, surreal dreamscapes, hydroponic weed and melodramatic angst — and she is not afraid to show her most vulnerable and authentic self to the world. Verdict: ⅘ Falcons.