Lana Del Rey’s name precedes her. Ever since the self-produced video for “Video Games” went viral, the absurd amount of hype it inspired has focused a spotlight on everything about her – her wealthy roots, her appearance and most of all, her metamorphosis from singer-songwriter Lizzy Grant into pop femme fatale Lana Del Rey. In short, she’s been scrutinized for everything but what actually matters: her music. It’s unfortunate, and the media’s misguided attacks have left an ugly smear on the glass ceiling that so severely limits many female musicians who find their music tangled with their images.

I, for one, can’t understand what crime Lana Del Rey has committed – her reinvention as a musician can hardly be perceived as selling out, as one must sell in the first place to become a sellout. It’s common knowledge and ancient history that the music industry manufactures images. Her appearance is irrelevant (but in any case, it’s lovely). And finally, her widely panned performance on Saturday Night Live doesn’t say much: musicians more established than she have bounced back from worse, and the burden to live up to expectations must be crippling. It’s frankly bizarre that music this uncomplicated and marketable has polarized people as much as it has.

Hopefully, once the hype dies down, more people will recognize Born to Die for what it is: a striking and intelligent debut, and potentially the start of a wildly successful career, provided Lana Del Rey can withstand the pressure.

The first track, “Born to Die,” shows what Del Rey is capable of – her rich voice with its air of detached weariness glides over smooth and refreshing string arrangements. It’s an air-conditioned penthouse on a sweltering night in July, isolated and cool. “Off to the Races” is charming in its vanity and showcases Del Rey’s vocal talent and versatility. “Video Games” is painfully beautiful: It’s easy to see why the world would become so intrigued with Del Rey upon hearing this song. Her somnolent voice sucks all the sentimentality out of what’s really a basic love song, and what’s left is pure melancholy, the lingering scent of perfume in an empty room.

The lyrical themes seem tailor-made for the music – they’re unabashedly self-involved, yet exude a sort of zen ennui. “Radio,” another highlight, laces sass with sweetness like a more apathetic Robyn, while pop ballad “Million Dollar Man” resembles Lady Gaga”s “Brown Eyes.”

It’s not a perfect album – there are a few throwaway tracks, and her slower songs can run together. The tongue-in-cheek superficiality toes the line of cheapness in “National Anthem,” and it’s not especially daring. But the good songs easily overshadow the weaker ones, and Born to Die is the type of album that grows on you.

Beneath her armor of lust, luxury and glamour, Lana Del Rey oozes sage resignation, a familiarity with the abyss and the tired hollowness of decadence. She’s a pop star version of Gatsby’s Daisy, glittery and tragic, whose flaws manage to be endearing and necessary. Maybe she belongs to a different era, but it’s a beautiful one.