By now, you know the story — full-lipped singing phenom releases artsy, mysterious video on the Internet attracting the attention of music critics across the globe; bloggers turn singer into theoretical whipping boy due to her questionable back story; singer performs on Saturday Night Live and manages to infuriate everyone from teenagers on Twitter to NBC news anchor Brian Williams; lather, rinse, repeat.

All this is old news about Lana Del Rey, the New York-born singer/songwriter formerly known as Elizabeth “Lizzy” Grant who has been a mainstay of hipster music debates and trending topics since releasing her first single in August 2011. 

Her cyclical rise/fall within the good graces of the music-consuming public now culminates with the release of her debut album Born to Die — and if anything, the result is an anticlimactic one. 

For those of us who expected something slightly praiseworthy (genius, even) and intended to retract previous criticisms of Del Rey upon the album’s release, Born to Die just might be the biggest letdown of the year.

But were we really surprised?

Why challenges of “authenticity” have appeared in recent coverage of Born to Die remains a baffling situation; pop music, by its very nature, is inauthentic. Del Rey is our Frankenstein — an amalgamation of prefabricated major label meaty bits, of blogworthy buzzwords, of teenage boys’ wet dreams. 

She is the new, trendy poseable doll du jour — hardly a new concept in a genre driven solely by consumption, promotion and repetition.

Del Rey seems quite content in this position as Born to Die’s coquettish plaything, cooing through a variety of cringe-worthy, uber-dependent lines: “Do you think we’ll be in love forever?”; “God, you’re so handsome”; “Keep me forever, tell me you own me”; “I need you to come here and save me.” 

A majority of the album plays out in similar ways — Del Rey throwing herself at the feet of a dangerously attractive man, attempting to remind him of all the ways in which she, too, oozes sex appeal and is worthy of attention. 

Whether or not this gendered world view is shared by Lizzy Grant remains up for debate. Yet, even the jilted girlfriend malaise of “Video Games,” the song that put Del Rey on the map, emanates a certain naive sexual desperation — pick me up, play with me, love me. (“It’s you, it’s you. It’s all for you.”)

While few expect contemporary pop music to be peppered with some sort of radical politicization, Del Rey seemed poised to challenge the lyrical and aesthetic qualities of the genre when she first gained attention from the blogosphere. 

It is here, with all its unrealistic visions of total female submission, that Born to Die fails the most. 

The songs are merely extended renditions of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” stretched out over an exhausting, sleep-inducing  12 tracks; good luck searching for any deeper meaning by the time you reach the album’s breathy closer, “This is What Makes Us Girls.” (But not so fast — that track is about men, too.)

Sadly, the album’s excessive length means decently entertaining tracks (such as the sultry, swagga-tinged “Summertime Sadness” and hook-laden “Dark Paradise”) become buried beneath mounds of saccharine sludge; one can only take so much of half-sung, half-rapped lines about vacationing in the Hamptons while drinking Bacardi (“National Anthem”) before giving up on Born to Die.

Money makes lyrical appearances throughout the album almost as much as Del Rey’s mystery hunk; after all, Born to Die is her Barbie Dream House and we’re only allowed to gaze inside at all its mass-produced, plastic-sheen glory. 

But who paid for that plastic mansion? Lest we forget: Born to Die is the product of a major record label and, for all the talk of a dying industry, this record reeks of cold hard cash. This, surprisingly, is not a bad thing. (Why, however, someone on Interscope’s payroll failed to suggest Del Rey remove the laughably bad rap interludes from “National Anthem” will likely remain Born to Die’s biggest artistic mystery.)

Bolstered by a team of (likely expensive) for-hire songwriters and leading producers, Born to Die sounds like nothing else in the pop music canon; its lush, grandiose atmosphere, filled with sweeping chorus patches and tinny strings, envelopes and overtakes you like a fine fur coat lined with morphine. 

“Million Dollar Man” bathes Del Rey’s pouty croon in a swirl of processed guitar riffs and flighty strings, while icy snare hits and warbling synthesizers drive title track “Born to Die.” The lyrics might be worthy of a few eye rolls — but at least this sounds good, no?

It’s utterly clear Del Rey possesses a keen eye for what causes controversy, what sparks cultural debate — and for this, she is owed a certain degree of recognition for playing “the game.” 

Born to Die lures listeners in with an outward aesthetic that promises some element of sophistication and deviations from Top 40 pastiche — the thinking fan’s pop album, if you will. Had Del Rey & Co. stuck with this line of thinking, the album could have been a crossover hit. 

Instead, we’re left wondering if Del Rey will ever get to prove her artistic credibility with a sophomore effort — or if she was truly destined to burst onto the scene, flounder, and die.