It’s gone nine o’clock in Wembley Stadium and there is no sign of Lana Del Rey. True to form, the American singer is fashionably late to her own show — that London noise curfew be damned. Staff entertain the crowd by setting off Mexican waves. Nobody seems to mind that much.
All the criticisms from her earlier shows hold true. This is not a multi-hour marathon a la Taylor or Beyoncé. Instead, there’s a casual 90-hour run time with multiple breaks for dancers to perform dream ballets to an eerie hologram of Del Rey. One is a cover for a (barely noticeable) costume change, the other seemingly just because. Only 12 or so of her own songs are sung live; the rest are recordings or covers.
But when she sings there is something alchemical, like she’s pulling it from another dimension. Some lines do tail away, Del Rey staring with that blank-eyed look she has perfected. But this is all part of her Fifties-housewife-on-Quaaludes shtick. Then she turns around and has fun with it, embellishing her most famous lines with ease. She appears to have wisely dissolved her lip fillers, allowing for every pout, snarl and lip quiver to deliver on the jumbotron.
Although compact, the set list has some excellent runs. Chemtrails Over The Country Club is followed by Ultraviolence, at which point the stage breaks out in blood-red strobing. Ride and then Video Games. Young and Beautiful, Summertime Sadness and Born to Die come in a flurry, followed by — in a fabulous surprise — Venice Bitch. As Del Rey herself pointed out, she hasn’t sung that one live for years.
The covers are all excellent choices, thematically on point and showcasing Del Rey’s ability to make a song entirely her own. Her version of Tammy Wynette’s Stand By Your Man is goosebump-raising. Addison Rae, who was a delight as the opening act, joins Del Rey on stage towards the end for a rendition of her hit Diet Pepsi.
As for the staging, it’s... a lot. Maybe it could best be described as a Southern Gothic twist on Miss Havisham. Del Rey enters through the front door of a peeling blue clapboard house, draping herself around a rickety porch in a yellowed lace dress. Dancers haunt the swampy stage in white dresses like an Americana Gisele. Del Rey - dressed in custom Valentino, designed by Creative Director Alessandro Michele - sits on a swing as though Fragonard painted her in Florida. There’s a bridal prosession where flowers pop out of the stage in sync with Del Rey’s steps, leading to a rose arch on a scissor lift.
Every image is beautiful and strange, like a moodboard left out to get mildewed and stained. But often the staging felt over-busy, with Del Rey lost in the maelstrom. Did we really need the pole dancers shimmying up old-fashioned street lights, fans and feathers whirling and twirling, a piano that rose from the podium just to drip water. Her repertoire’s themes of self-destructive love can stand alone. It doesn’t need to be underscored to literally by setting fire to the house while singing about setting a house on fire.
Unfortunately, the spectacle can feel like a cover for Del Rey’s laconic performing style. It feels churlish to compare Del Rey to the other women artists currently tour. Perhaps seeing Charli xcx, Chappell Roan, Sabrina Carpenter and Olivia Rodrigo alone in the past month has blown my tastebuds out for pop extravaganzas and feats of physical and emotional exertion.
Del Rey’s voice is so wondrous, her every micro expression so enthralling, that she could have performed alone on stage in a single spotlight and it would have been enough. But then, could they have charged so much for tickets?
Lana Del Rey at Wembley Stadium, 4 July, tickets and infomation here.
