Review of the album "Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd," which is riveting and emotional.

Before anything further is stated about Lana Del Rey's new album, it should be emphasized that regardless of how well the album did upon release, it was predestined to rank second among her artistic endeavors of the previous year. But nothing could top the moment she placed the lone billboard announcing the new endeavor in Tulsa, Oklahoma—the hometown of a recent ex—in what could only be described as a deft fusion of extreme advertising narrowcasting and baller performance art.

Yet, "Did You Know That There's a Tunnel Beneath Ocean Blvd" is a very, very, very close second if it were to be the winner. In terms of her work that is unrelated to billboards, it might even qualify as her best piece to date. The use of the term "may" is advised because, of course, making claims to that kind of supremacy takes a lot of time and repeated listenings, and "Ocean Blvd." is such a dense collection of songs to take in that your first reaction to its 16 songs might be to get up for a standing ovation. and then consider that you might need a week to recover before you sit down for a second and third listen, this time with a ton of Cliff Notes available online. The album will probably weary you, at least if you listen to it in large doses as introspective songwriting and not just as background noise, but it will be a good kind of fatigue.

Anyone who read the news articles from December regarding Del Rey's strategic signage placement would understandably assume that "Ocean Blvd" will further target the relevant area. And incorrect. And even if the ex-boyfriend streams the album, he might get the biggest kick in the nuts from the fact that very little—if any—of it seems to be explicitly about him. This is not an album in the least; surprisingly few of the 16 songs are even about breakups or exes, and some of the few that are make references to other people who are known to have been in her past relationships.

Of course, a very wordy 78-minute album provides plenty of opportunity to examine desire done well and love done terribly, and there are some gems in that sense. However, for the majority of "Ocean Blvd," Del Rey is thinking about ostensibly heavier issues, starting with what she and her loved ones will be thinking about after her death in the opening song, "The Grants." (She does assume there will be a conscious afterlife.) The songs that come after that somber blast of legacy planning are, in no particular order: Almost always, her family was mentioned by name. Death. many family members have passed away. adoring her late grandfather, uncle, and father. not being as fond of mum. Her ability—or lack thereof—to be a mother herself. disease of the mind. God. guilt about one's sexuality. Sexual freedom. Pottery. Fear not, it's metaphorical. Elizabeth Qualley. Hair braiding as a symbol of genuine connection between lovers or friends. Have we discussed death? There are many of those.

Although if you're judgy in that regard, you probably got off the Del Rey bus before we got to this stop if you're one of those pop fans who is quick to use the word "solipsism" as a derogatory term. The best way to express the universal is through something that is specifically personal, as good songwriters will tell you. but in this song, the specifics come at you at a mile per minute, testing how much information about the former Lizzy Grant's life you want to know in each verse. If "bring it on" is the response, this album is a rich feast. Even if it does need research and multitasking to fully understand everything, such as having Google Search or Genius. com's fan-annotated side notes open if you're only a casual fan of Del Rey who wants to genuinely grasp who "Donoghue" is (a musician, ex-boyfriend name-checked in passing in one song, in a positive context). Perhaps to understand how her references to her uncle's death in the Colorado Mountains, "Rocky Mountain High," and her pastor's opinion on which aspects of consciousness survive into the next life are related. If you're willing to let all these poetic details-within-details transport you to a point where you're thinking of your own family and relationship troubles. it's that diary-like—and also that stunning. Or of your own impending demise! Or how Ms. Qualley, co-producer Jack Antonoff's adored wife, serves as a potent metaphor for your ideal partner.