I would have fucking loved Lana Del Rey when I was 15, and I half-love her today, but her album hates my guts. There, it’s out. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck her, fuck them, fuck everything.
(Underneath a cut for those sick of reading about her and/or who don’t want to read about my grappling with musical objections. I wasn’t planning on writing about this, but somehow, a few points managed to go unmentioned. Rrrgh.)
Another commenter makes the usual sort of comment whenever you see a pop culture topic, “WHY IS THERE AN ARTICLE ABOUT THIS HUMAN? Can we please all work together to uncouple the concept of general notoriety from the concept of having done something worth discussing? Gee willikers”, and at first I was like, ‘come on shut up’, but then I was like, ‘Hmmm… you’re on to something there’. Because, and I really love NVC’s piece here and I think it’s totally worthwhile and fine, people like Rebecca Black probably shouldn’t have anything ever written about them. But the fact of their fame is interesting, and probably worthy of coverage, especially dry funny coverage like this. We’re in a real bind here. NVC is simultaneously Jack and Murray (from above, remember?). She’s the silent observer ridiculing the fame and also the cultural scholar further ossifying the fame. What the hell are you supposed to do, then?
The classic, maddening problem. (I still say we anagram everyone’s name forever, but that won’t go over.)
(Source: maura)
