2019 was the year I finally got Lana Del Rey. I suspect I'm not the only one: Norman Fucking Rockwell! looks poised to do better than any of her previous albums did on end-of-the-year lists. Very much positioning herself as a modern-day lovelorn Laurel Canyon denizen, Del Rey has the same sort of tart, confessional, melancholy tone that Joni Mitchell perfected about 50 years ago. (If nothing else, I hope this record encourages people to seek out Mitchell's most underrated great album, For the Roses.) She's her own person -- self-indulgent but candid about her insecurities -- and what used to annoy me about her zoned-out affectation now feels perfectly honed. Either she's matured as an artist or I've finally wised up about what made her special. Maybe it's a bit of both.
