Ultraviolence: When the Dream Becomes a Drug

By Kai Spooner

Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey is widely considered to be one of the most influential albums of the 21st century. Her sophomore record draws inspiration from the West Coast as well as from Brooklyn, NY. Her debut era was infused with iconic Americana imagery such as biker gangs and old-Hollywood glamour and whilst Born to Die focused on thealluring culture of American suburbia, Ultraviolence shifts to the darker underbelly of the American dream. It relies on guitars and jazz undertones and is worlds apart from her hip-hop inspired debut. Dividing critics and listeners alike with its provocative lyricism and hopeless sense of melancholia, the album invites us to return to Del Rey’s twisted vision of America.

Much like with her debut record Born to Die, Del Rey appears to take pleasure in creating a vivid image of the America that she lusts for; an image from an idealised version of the past, one that never truly existed at all. The track Old Money talks of ‘red racing cars, sunset and vine’, and the record samples Nino Rota’s theme from Zefferelli’s 1968 adaptation of Romeo and Juliet – a cinematic romance that perfectly encapsulates the intensity and tragedy of Ultraviolence’s central affair. In Brooklyn Baby she sings of the ‘freedom land of the 70s’ and how she has ‘feathers in [her] hair / [and gets] high on hydroponic weed’. Here she associates  herself with the hippie culture of the 1960s and 70s, whilst the track’s psychedelic rock production creates a transcendental feel that elicits nostalgia for a time before Del Rey, and most of her listeners existed. Dan Auberbach of The Black Keys produced a significant portion of the record, and he creates opulent soundscapes harkening back to the singer’s favourite cultural period, one which was fuelled by debauchery. The music itself seems to act as a character in Del Rey’s story: unpredictable, ever-changing and powerful. 

Nevertheless, Del Rey’s Ultraviolence portrays a somewhat tragic vision of America, filled with broken dreams and toxic relationships that are as addictive to her as the drugs she sings about. On the track Florida Kilos, Del Rey writes ‘white lines, baking powder on the stove / cooking up a dream, turning diamonds into snow’. Here, she’s implying that her dreams – perhaps alluding to  The American Dream – have an inextricable link to her own depravity and depression. If the dream is to turn ‘diamonds into snow’, then Del Rey’s materialistic persona from Born to Die must be officially dead. She no longer takes pleasure in her diamonds, pearls and money, but instead has replaced them with drugs and the desire for a greater reason to exist. White picket fences have been replaced with white lines, and Del Rey displays an insatiable appetite for an alternative life, demonstrating the suffocating grip of her world of fantasy. Del Rey has voiced that her discography mirrors her own personal journey toward achieving the American Dream. If this is the case, then Ultraviolence certainly represents the stage of confusion and desperation to attain it. She questions what the ‘Dream’ actually is to her in its raw form, and why it hasn’t found her yet. She perhaps goes even further to suggest that she already has achieved the promise of the American Dream: she has a lover, money and freedom. However, Del Rey illustrates this success in a deeply perturbing way, one which makes you want to run from the dream and never look back.

Throughout Ultraviolence, Del Rey explores a romance darkened by the actions of her lover. The song Black Beauty explores the psyche of this man, hardened by life, and sings to him, ‘you said if you could have your way / you’d make it nighttime all today / so it’d suit the mood with your soul’. Here, Del Rey highlights the brooding nature of her lover who she refers to as oblivious to the beauty of life: ‘life is beautiful, but [he doesn’t] have a clue’. Her lover’s ignorance to the richness of life leaves him moody, only being able to walk through the direst of paths. Even the song being titled Black Beauty alludes to Sewell’s 1877 novel of the same name, which sees an innocent horse who is sold to successively cruller owners. The novel ends with the horse coming into the possession of somebody kind who nurses him back to full health. Del Rey may then be comparing her unconditional love for her partner to that of the kind owner in Sewell’s novel. 

However, Del Rey’s nurturing of the man back to a state where he can once again love comes at a great price, as she writes of the abuse which she endures during the process. She claims in the title-track that ‘he hit me and it felt like a kiss’, with these lyrics echoing The Crystals 1960s song of the same name. Many have found issue in this song and its masochism, with claims that Del Rey glamorises abuse and perpetuates an anti-feminist sentiment to her audience. This is a claim which Del Rey is no stranger to in her other works and the singer has discussed on numerous occasions how her albums are diaristic, only talking about her life, and her experiences as she has lived them. In fact, Del Rey acknowledges the lunacy of the speaker’s state of mind, as during the track’s interlude, she sings ‘I’m your jazz singer and you’re my cult leader / I love you forever, I love you forever’. Del Rey positions herself as nothing than a figure of entertainment for her abusive lover, a role which she accepts gladly, whilst he is a ‘cult leader’, representing  how he has effectively brainwashed her. The persona in the song has lost her sense of self, subjecting herself to abuse, and tolerating an unfulfilling relationship in order to feel more alive. 

But don’t be too quick to dismiss Del Rey’s persona as simply a victim. Her character often takes charge with the men whom she sings about, with her love for them being secondary to her love for herself. One of Del Rey’s most famed lyrics comes from Brooklyn Baby, where she sings ‘my boyfriend is pretty cool / but he’s not as cool as me’. This simple and assertive statement shows an assuredness that her character seems to have been hiding from the listener throughout the record. In Money, Power, Glory, Del Rey states that she wants ‘money, and all your power, all your glory / hallelujah, I wanna take you for all that you got’. It is obvious here that her persona yearns for the status and respect that men are given, even if it means ruining her lover in the process. Here she is selfish and unloving, yet brilliant. Whilst her lover tries to drain Del Rey of her happiness, she in turn drains him of his riches and power, knowing that she can leave once she has achieved this. By voicing these materialistic desires, Del Rey occupies a space in music often reserved for men. One can argue that she uses her lovers to advance her own life, either monetarily, for status or her happiness. Del Rey recognises that in the patriarchal world in which she inhabits, a man may be necessary – even if only for the time being. 

Acting as a provocateur in an attempt to be heard, Del Rey proves throughout this nuanced record, and the rest of her career, that she has something of substance to say. Proclaimed by Rolling Stone UK as ‘the greatest American songwriter of the 21st century’, she unflinchingly writes of her own experiences, finding beauty , both in the pain of life and in its splendours. 

Kai Spooner