My buddies, let's have a look at the state of secretary rock in 2021. For those who don't know, secretary rock is music made for secretaries: tasteful, acoustic, worthy, romantic, unerotic, shallow, dull. My review of Tracy Chapman's Tracy Chapman goes more into the definition, so look that up if you're curious. A glance at the influences section on Lana Del Rey's Wikipedia page should cause a wariness to build. Her stated tastes as all presentable, all predictable, all mainstream, nothing even fleetingly left-field: Billie Holliday, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Bob Dylan, Britney Spears, Eminem, Amy Winehouse. Only Courtney Love provokes a quizzical huh, and that's scarcely for the audacity of the choice. And that respectability represents one of the main faults of the album: it's scared to draw or even stir blood. At one point she proclaims to be "wild at heart," which leads the listener what her devilish streak is capable of. Making a coffee with milk that's on its use-by date? Writing the word butt in her diary (which definitely has a pony on the cover)? Sleeping until 9 a.m. on a Sunday? Her parents must be so disappointed. Another issue is the uniformity. Almost every song sounds identical, with the same plucked guitar, the same tapped piano, the same overprocessed voice (the vocal affectations may seriously aggravate). This ties in to the album's tastefulness: it refuses to gamble, so every song gravitates to the same humdrum model. Also, it's impossible not to notice how often the lyrics don't scan, with compressed lines and laboured metres. The second half almost redeems the album, where Lana takes a stroll towards Americana, and she finds one or two good songs (or in some cases, snippets of songs). But I can't decipher the grand message of this album. It seems to comprise a series of vignettes which don't convey anything deep and just describe everyday scenes in Lana's life. Is Lana so interesting that her meeting her friends for a beer deserves poetic commemoration? I'd say no.