There were hundreds of crooners, but only one Frank Sinatra.ĭel Rey’s image and artistry perfectly aligned for the first time on this year’s Norman Fucking Rockwell! (NFR), a supremely confident declaration of self. Here was someone who knew exactly what she was doing – and when other people tried it (see: Taylor Swift’s Wildest Dreams), something was clearly missing. Her themes became more provocative, while her sweeping, lunar balladry pushed beyond cliched noir. In pop’s big league, only Drake matched her productivity, although he might wish he had her increasing creative returns. More significantly, Del Rey deepened her craft, producing six albums in nine years, each better than the last.
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