You have to applaud any singer who kicks off a show with the words, ‘My pussy tastes like Pepsi cola’. In the case of Lana Del Rey, who belts out this bizarre analogy in a shrill, banshee-like quiver, it’s arguably a bigger risk, not only because the effect is terribly creepy, but because our glowing hostess has been called some very un-glowing things over the past two years, and her detractors need little encouragement to dub her a talentless shock tactician.
Thankfully, none of those people are in the room tonight, and, even if they were, 18 months of touring has turned Lana into a powerfully enigmatic, defiant crooning machine. Her sorrowful, potty-mouthed brand of high-drama pop has had plenty of time to boil down to a Vicar St.-appropriate size, and, complete with a four-piece string section and a plot of palm trees, the set-up is bursting with allegory, like everything else that carries the Lana Del Rey name.
Meandering though a selection of Born To Die and Paradise showstoppers, our self-styled femme fatale sets the mood with spooked, emotive vocals, which are undeniably on point whether flooding out in a bassy boom or an operatic squeal.
Not a single track deviates from the LDR blueprint of simmering melancholy, but the lack of body-popping opportunities doesn’t seem to bother the crowd, who are more than happy to wave their arms about in excited adoration.
In turn, Lana is an obliging slave to her fans, spending minutes at a time posing for pictures, holding their hands and letting them fondle her hair.
It makes sense, then, that the audience should be responsible for the show’s most spine-chilling moment; “We have two more songs left,” Lana announces, “but I just want to say, you know, a lot of people have said a lot of things about me but I really appreciate all of my friends and all of my fans…” Anything that comes after this is drowned out by the crowd’s elated whoops, and after a minute-or-so of lapping it up, she turns her back to us in an awkward hunch and loses it.
Then, summoning the band into action, she does her best to minimise the damage to her make-up and chokes out the opening lines to ‘Video Games’, her bittersweet signature song. Again she jettisons speech, but it’s okay, the audience can pick up the slack until she’s ready to sing her heart out some more.
Eyes will probably roll when the internet gets word of Lana’s breakdown, but hey, if we wanted a hard-boiled pro, we’d all be sat in front of Barbra Streisand. Del Rey’s charm was never in the expertise, but in the emotion, and tonight’s show is about as unguarded as pop music gets.
Still in doubt about Lana Del Rey’s authenticity? Ask the fans. They have the selfies to prove it.