Venice Bitch— Lana Del Rey

#365Songs: April 25

My Italian travelogue has reached the canals of Venice and you expect me not talk about one of the standout tracks from Lana Del Rey’s fucking masterpiece record Norman Fucking Rockwell!?

Yeah, I said it. Masterpiece. I thought it then. I think it now.

My daughter calls me a “Lana Boy.” I’m not sure if this is derogatory or not; I assumed it was the alternative to being a Swiftie, as if I could only fall into one of these two camps. I guess I landed on it’s not not derogatory.

I’ll wear the Lana Boy badge as long as Lauren Mayberry still recognizes my one true allegiance.

Lana Del Rey occupies a weird little indie singer-songwriter niche where she’s both loved and disliked, recognized by a broader musical genpop but also dismissed. She’s eccentric, but not odd enough. Trying too hard, but not trying hard enough. She can’t be dark and disillusioned like Billie Eilish. She lacks the Taylor Swift billion-wattage stage persona.

Movie star looks, an unfiltered vernacular, and karma to burn.

I will receive side-eye for picking a Lana song. Still, someone will nod, quietly, in passing. We’ll share the unspoken agreement to not talk about Lana Del Rey for fear of hearing the sighs and scoffs from people who don’t actually listen to her music. Sure, maybe they heard that “Video Games” song that launched her in 2012 and maybe they watched her awkward and cringey SNL performance. They wrote her off, another starlet, gone by Tuesday. Good riddance. Get lost.

I admit. I bailed, too, but I came back for 2015’s Honeymoon. Va bene.

Lana Del Ray’s public persona is both understated and messy and totally ridiculously full of itself. I love her and hate her. And to make this thematic — she’s not unlike the city of Venice itself. Venetians don’t really consider themselves Italians. It’s still really just a city-state, filled with its own traditions and unique history. But above all they’ve embraced their otherness, the ways they are and are not Italian. But mostly the are not.

In “Venice Bitch,” Lana’s not writing about Venice, Italy, of course — but that’s irrelevant to the point. You were thinking it’s too “on the nose” for Venice. Maybe. But Venice, Venice Beach, she gives no fucks and we give no fucks and Venice — they certainly give no fucks. It’s a love story, after all.

On my first page in my journal about Venice I wrote only: “I’m in Venice, absorbing, wandering. I want to get lost. Got lectured for ordering cicchetti wrong.”

That’s the way I feel when I put on Lana’s Norman Fucking Rockwell! It is an album to absorb, to let linger. The songs are novellas, wandering and sprawling, imperfect and beautiful, nonsensical and reflective. To make mistakes and carry on.

It’s also how I feel about Venice.

Who builds a city on water? In the water? With doors for boats? The famous St. Mark’s square? It’s just a platform on top of water. Venetians gave no fucks. They built the Doge’s Palace out of a ship’s hull. You want to build a city-state on water? Go ahead. Build on the water. We’re shipbuilders. We can make anything float.

Lana’s “Venice Bitch” opening volley:

Fear fun, fear love, fresh out of fucks forever
Tryin’ to be stronger for you
Ice cream, ice queen, I dream in jeans and leather
Live stream, I’m sweet for you

The song goes on for nine more minutes. If there was any singer or song with no fucks to give? Lana Del Rey, in an interview with Beats Radio 1:

It was funny when I played for my managers. I was like ‘yeah, I think this is the single I wanna put out,’ and they were like ‘it’s 10 minutes long, are you kidding me. It’s called Venice Bitch, like why you do this to us? Can you make like 3-minute normal pop song’ and I was like ‘no, end of summer some people just wanna drive around for 10 minutes and get lost in electric guitar.’

The song’s above all else nostalgic, littered with familiar psychedelic guitar riffs and easy-going synth. The perfect song about getting lost in the music. It’s utterly pointless and also purposeful in its method. Referential, deferential.

Back, back in the garden
We’re getting high now because we’re older
Me myself, I like diamonds
My baby, crimson and clover

Compared to other cities and regions in Italy, Venice isn’t known for its fine cuisine. Venitians eat to drink. And frequently at a bacaro (a wine bar). There are also the botegòn, cantina, cicchetteria, enoteca and osteria. I couldn’t detail the differences if I tried. I walked into a bacaro and pointed to some of the unlabeled cicchetti (just consider them cousins to tapas) and asked “Cos’e questo?” The bartender slammed the case shut and told me, in his clipped inglese, that once I ordered the drink, the cicchetti would come to me.

So I ordered an aperol spritz and continued to point. Eventually he gave up on me, assembled some cicchetti on a wandering plate, and cast me out into the Venetian night without so much as a buona sera.

His eyes said “Get lost.” Mine said, “Grazie. I will.”

It’s a love story after all.

1. (Rome) Postcards From Italy / 2. (Rome) The Promise / 3. (Rome) La Dolce Vita / 4. (Rome-Florence) The Man I Love / 5. (Florence) Gloria / 6. (Florence) Reptile / 7. (Florence) Medusa / 8. (Cinque Terre) Hotel Supramonte / 9. (Cinque Terre) High speed calm air tonight

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