A copious amount of ink has been spilled on the death of the “monoculture”: Nobody has the same interests anymore, with culture having become fragmented and siloed due to the internet and hyper-personalized algorithms. Yet there is one person left who is still able to grab the zeitgeist in a stranglehold and capture everyone’s attention: Taylor Swift. The second wind her career has had in the 2020s has been utterly remarkable to watch. She was already one of the biggest pop stars in the world, but then she ascended to another level; she became an unavoidable leviathan whose every move was fawned over. But, frankly, I think this devotion was somewhat understandable. “Folklore” is one of the best albums of the decade and showcased a remarkable leap forward for Swift’s song-craft; the lyrics are eminently poignant, and the production, courtesy of Aaron Dessner and Jack Antonoff, is gorgeous.
However, something happened with Swift following this album and “Evermore”; maybe the album rerecordings caused her to slip back into more immature songwriting, or the ludicrous fame and acclaim got to her head, but something was lost. “Midnights” was an insipid affair and “The Tortured Poets Department” a turgid mess, despite having some flashes of brilliance. One world-dominating tour later, we’ve arrived at her new album, “The Life of a Showgirl.” For this album, Swift decided to finally move on from Dessner and Antonoff, which had me excited; I felt like she had hit a wall with those two. In their place, she brought back Shellback and Max Martin, the duo who helped create some of her best pop hits like “Style,” “Wildest Dreams” and “Gorgeous.” All the stars were aligning for Swift’s triumphant return to pop … but the final product is more of a mixed bag.
“The Life of a Showgirl” starts with its best foot forward. “The Fate of Ophelia” is a great lead single with bouncy guitars and glistening synths. It also establishes one of the main themes of the entire album: Travis Kelce has saved Swift from a life of despair, and she couldn’t be happier — yippee. In “Elizabeth Taylor,” Swift laments how fame has doomed her relationships through a fun chorus featuring booming drops and dramatic string arrangements. Taylor then celebrates a newfound clarity and joy in her life on “Opalite” with shimmering vocal arrangements. Up to this point, the album has been solid; Martin and Shellback prove they’re still the kings of pop production, and Taylor’s lyrics are breezy while retaining some of the writerly flourishes that have defined her recent output.
But then the album has a steep fall-off in quality. “Father Figure” is a narcissistic, cringey diss track toward Olivia Rodrigo for not worshipping at the altar of Swift enough. “Eldest Daughter” is a raw ballad with striking piano chords that’s unfortunately scattershot in its lyrical aim. However, we then arrive at “Ruin the Friendship,” which might be my favorite from the album. I love the delicate acoustic guitar and supple bass line, and Swift goes back into her storytelling bag to explore yearning adolescence and unconfessed love. It’s a great fusion of the lyricism of Folklore with the buoyant production of Shellback and Martin; if only the entire album had been like this. “Actually Romantic” is putrid; Swift’s beef with Charli XCX is bizarre, and the song’s attempts at nonchalance and sarcasm don’t land at all. Taylor then romanticizes domesticity and childbearing on “Wi$h Li$t”; if there were ever a sign of the changing cultural tide in this country, it would be this. “Wood” has a fun electric guitar part reminiscent of “I’m Coming Out” and a killer groove, but Taylor’s awkward sexual innuendos ultimately ruin it.
After some unmemorable detours, we stumble upon the album’s final track, which has a great guest feature from Sabrina Carpenter. It’s also a conceptually funny track, as Taylor keeps the listener at a distance and tells us in the catchy chorus, “You don't know the life of a showgirl, babe, / And you're never, ever gonna.” It seems that the album’s name was just a tease, for Taylor believes we could never possibly fathom her struggles and the trappings of fame. Perhaps, she’s right, but I think I can glean something else from “The Life of a Showgirl”: Swift has nothing interesting left to say anymore. She has the perfect himbo who will never challenge her, all the money a gazillion vinyl variants can get you and the kind of fanbase that borders on idolatry. Throughout the album, Taylor incessantly tries to convince us she’s now happy and has finally found peace, but it mostly comes off as unconvincing and boring. No amount of pristine pop production can salvage a project from songwriting that reflects such a barren inner world.
