Before we begin, my credentials.
You cannot critique Taylor Swift’s work without being accused of hating her, so let me say right now that I’ve been a fan for nearly 20 years, RED was the soundtrack of falling in love with my dead husband, who kept a signed photo of Taylor at his desk and who bought 1989 tour tickets on his deathbed using his mom’s American Express. Reputation was perfect, and I took my daughter to that tour as well. I was at nights one and two of The Eras Tour! I’ve always cringed at some lyrics and songs and have felt others strike a chord deep within my soul.
I’ve loved Taylor when she was a teenager waiting to be noticed by her crush, when she was a fake hermit writing songs about imaginary love triangles during the pandemic, through all of the eras, and — importantly — even despite lyrics like “don’t put me in the basement when I want the penthouse of your heart” and indications that she does not know how Christmas decor works (“we can leave the Christmas lights up ‘til January.”).
I have loved her happy work, her silly work, her heartbroken work. I love seeing her happy and in love with a big, broad doofus who says she’s the “smartest woman in the world” because she uses some SAT words.
And I hate this album.
Taylor is a lightning rod and a Rorschach Test.
Say the wrong thing and you’ll be struck down or asked to look at the ink blot again and reallllllly think about what you see in front of you.
Things I’ve seen people say online about this album:
It’s supposed to just be fun!1
Let people like what they like!
Listen to it ten times and you’ll change your mind!
There are people addicted to criticizing her, who despise the artist so much they can’t see the art. There are people who cannot stand to see her critiqued, who love the artist so much they cannot see the art.
And here, somewhere in between, is us.
To talk about Taylor’s work, you have to talk about Taylor’s brand.
This album was announced on New Heights, the podcast that Taylor’s boyfriend shares with his brother (synergy!).
She said (and I’m paraphrasing) that before you choose to pay attention to someone’s opinions, you should regard your attention as a luxury item and consider whether the person has invested enough to earn your attention.
I found that sentiment about investment interesting as I listened to The Life of A Showgirl, an album that was released only after Taylor Swift Corp. pushed out 28 (and counting!) variants of CDs and vinyl and plastic cardigans to her fans, all available for a “limited time” to drive sales and a sense of scarcity. Oh! And don’t forget, a behind the scenes “movie” (series of lyric videos) released in AMC.
She is aware that her fans have and will invest in whatever her tells them to: they will buy all of those album variants, just to have access to the poems or photos that unlock the real, secret, deeper meaning that she will never confirm or deny.
Nobody is better at building and maintaining a parasocial bond than Taylor Swift, a perpetual victim of her circumstances, simultaneously a mastermind and a helpless girl that you cannot criticize without being called a misogynist.
“Would you criticize a man for doing this?”
Yeah, but I don’t know of any men, so that’s kind of a moot point.
The only man who can do anything close to what Taylor does is Donald Trump, and Taylor, too, could shoot someone in the middle of fifth avenue and have her fans say, “no, you don’t get it, it’s an Easter Egg!”