Awkward Situations For Girls Blog

Why I feel uneasy about Lana Del Rey

It’s not because of her fabricated identity – because, let’s face it; that has long been pop music’s way. Bob Dylan, Elton John, Gaga.

It’s not because she’s a bit rubbish live – that’s also frequently pop music’s way. Britney, Milli Vanilli, Steps.

It’s also not because I feel duped by her failed past as Lizzy Grant; I don’t really care about that level of manipulation - what’s in a name? Just as I don’t mind that, despite releasing Video Games as a limited edition 7’ on an obscure label, Lana Del Rey was actually signed to major label Interscope the whole time. I don’t mind all the ‘gangster Nancy Sinatra’ front, or the pertinent outreach to hipster blogs, or the curiously self-conscious posturing.

So what is it that makes me uneasy?

I think it’s her face.


There’s no denying that Lana Del Rey is very pretty, and cosmetic surgery has long been acknowledged an expected part of celebrity. Gone are the years when Posh Spice emphatically denied breast enlargement; here are the days when the media widely reports Cheryl Cole spending £14,000 replacing her teeth, while Katie Price has botox and boob jobs on camera in her reality show.

What’s more, corrective surgery among non-celebrities - so beautifully termed ‘civilians’ by Elizabeth Hurley - is broadly acceptable, should that person’s defect be adequately ‘severe’ enough: perhaps a large nose that engenders bullying; maybe a boob reduction to ease back strain. The war on ageing is also roughly allowed, socially - so long as it doesn’t devolve into the semblance of a cat woman.

But there is something sad and even a little deplorable about a young girl who changes her face and body to improve the chances of a career. Even more so, when an artificially-enhanced sultry look hints at an increased sexuality.

I find myself getting cross about the level to which Lana Del Rey has changed the way she looks to better sell a product. I mind that Lana Del Rey has allegedly had lip augmentation and purportedly changed her appearance through cosmetic surgery… to what end? To look a little more old Hollywood?

It’s ridiculous that LDR is arguably more famous for her manufactured and enhanced image than for her songs. (What kind of message does it send out to kids growing up in our TOWIE culture which celebrates fame over talent time and time again, when a girl with a nice voice had to change the way she looked to be successful? What does it say to young girls, who become insecure about their body image at the age of 9 - that you can’t make it unless you look like you could suck a black hole into your mouth and swallow the universe whole?)

We’re making Lana Del Rey famous for making it after she’d changed the way the way she looks. We keep bloody writing about her. Look, I’m doing it now! We’re idiots.

Cosmetic surgery makes women distrust women who’ve had it. I’m sorry, it does. It undermines our sense of who they are; we wonder why they were so unhappy with themselves that they felt they had to change so significantly (and permanently). Purely from a genetic standpoint, we look at bone structure and evaluate whether we should procreate with that person - whether they’ve inherited good genes which they’d pass on to any offspring, or not. But how can we know if they’ve fannied about away from the genepool?

Enhancing image down to the airbrushing of every last thumbnail has been rife for so long that we’re used to unobtainable, perfect stars. My problem with Lana Del Rey is that she’s 24 and she’s changed her face to make it more sexy. And that, in turn, indicates that she didn’t think she was sexy enough before. And now she wants us to perceive her as more sexy. And what’s sexy about that?

Lana Del Rey’s album, Born To Die, is released on Monday

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The Art of the Tease

At this very moment in time I am trying to be invisible.

Well, OK, not at this very moment, because at this very moment I am stuffing my face with mini-Daim bars, writing this blog. But at the very moment I’m trying to evoke for you, I am sitting low in my seat, mortified, in the very front row of a burlesque show.

On stage, a curvy middle-aged madam of at least fifty plus is prowling around in fluffy high heels and a glittery top hat, discussing the art of the tease. I’m on an ill thought-out office night out: behind me, two male colleagues giggle uncontrollably.

Goodtime Mama Jojo fingers the edge of her slinky robe. “Do you want to know what I’ve got under here?” She purrs.

I have to admit, I don’t want to know what she’s got under there. I don’t want to know at all. As I catch a fleeting glimpse of a pearl thong, there’s nothing for it - I corpse into laughter. 

Surprisingly, though, Goodtime Mama Jojo - GMJ, OMG - beams at me broadly. It turns out I’m not being rude! Laughter is exactly the point of burlesque - after all, it’s what the word means: a comic parody, an exaggerated imitation; essentially a funny performance.

I think we’ve all got used to the modern burlesque of women such as Dita Von Teese. The retro sexiness, the kitten-like playfulness, the body. Oh, the body. What we’ve forgotten is that burlesque doesn’t have to be a champagne striptease performed by beautiful women. 

While Dita is breathtaking, we should also feel empowered watching ladies in their fifties such as Goodtime Mama Jojo - GMJ, OMG - undress down to a pearl thong while having a good giggle. It lets us relax a little from the perfect ideal of ‘sexiness’. Sexiness doesn’t have to be a Von Teese body draped in £200 of Agent Provocateur; it can also be a rather gawky wiggle out of a pyjama onesie while humming the brass section from the Diet Coke advert. (“And I just want to make looooove, to you. DUR-DUH-DUH DA-DUH!”) If you feel sexy, and your partner thinks you’re sexy, then… well, you’re sexy, right? You just have to believe it.

If you want to recreate the gawky wiggle out of a pyjama onesie while humming the brass section from the Diet Coke advert, here are three key burlesque moves to help you on your way:

The conceal
I’ve always thought true sex appeal lies in what you don’t show. Forget the FHM High Street Honeys circa 1998 with their nips out - it was always the girls smiling coyly in their boyfriends’ white shirts who made me think, ‘you’re cool.’ The conceal is key to burlesque - be it a silk robe, laptop case, paperback One Day or feathered fan: hide your bits to make the next move                                more special.

The reveal
After the clouds must come the, err, sun. Yep, you’ve hidden your light behind a bushel (look, writing metaphors about ladyparts is VERY HARD, OK?) and now it’s time to flash a bit of leg. Or boob. Or bottom. If you don’t mind the chance you’ll recreate the ‘to me, to you, to you, to me’ of the Chuckle Brothers, flick between the conceal and reveal a few times. Wax on,                               wax off. Oh, I give up.

The shimmy
Once you’ve degenerated into nothing but your birthday suit, there’s only really one thing left to do: shake your money maker. Shake it like a polaroid picture! (Etc.) Pull your shoulders back proudly and wiggle those
                         knockers like a wiggly knocker pro.

As, to all intents and purposes, I’m celebrating the comedy of burlesque, here, I may as well end this post with Kiki Kaboom’s scene-stealing routine, The Chav. Sultry forties Dita, this ain’t; just imagine you’re sitting on a bus, being flicked the v-sign by a girl blaring Rihanna from her phone. And now imagine that girl slips out of her puffa jacket and gives you the shimmy. Oh, lawd.

I went to the press preview of Burlexe at the Shadow Lounge, which returns on Nov 30th: facebook.com/burlexe
Goodtime Mama Jojo AKA Jo King runs London Academy of Burlesque and London School of Striptease
Drawings by Crumpet from pandacrumpet.wordpress.com