I have a lot of odd little feelings watching Lana Del Rey’s mini opus, “Ride”. Nothing terribly earth-shattering, more like the silly practicality of what is laid out before the viewer.
Go on, now. Watch Lana as she cavorts with bikers, takes the ho stro’ while drinking orange soda, bends over both a balcony and a pinball machine, and moan-sings with the red drapes behind her as if she’s a character in a David Lynch film…then we’ll talk.
So. I know I shouldn’t be so GOTdamn sensible all the time. It’s a hassle, really, and makes me feel old and wet blanket-y, but I couldn’t turn OFF my internal “HEY, HOW’D SHE PAY FOR THAT?” Sensible Voice during Lana’s mournful drone for “Freedom” with a capital F.
Why shouldn’t we be allowed to wander the streets without a “real job“? Don’t you wanna just hang with some bikers for a few weeks at a sketch motel in Albuquerque? Because I do. But how’mmuh gonna pay to get my stiletto nails did? Tire swings leave nasty black marks on your shorts and legs, you know. Wait. My hair is flying in the breeeeze. I have no idea how it got this clean, gorgeous and curly, do you? Look at that pretty fire. Where’s my pimp daddy? Can I play with that gun? Am I the only one who doesn’t stink around here? Seriously. My hair has never looked more lovely. Dancing, laughing and crying with my bikers. Aren’t we supposed to be wearing helmets? I was always an unusual girl. Am I no longer an idealistic dreamer? Derrrp, you’re OLD now.
So when did the voice of UN-reason sound so enticing? Because it always has…we just stopped listening. I think I should watch Ride one more time–and this time just let the images wash over me.
Thanks for letting me dream for 10 minutes, Lana.