Already a subscriber?Who’s torturing who here? Sorry, sorry. That isn’t the freshest zinger to zing in the direction of this sprawling newdouble album, but please know that after funnelling 19 of its 31 tracks through my headphones on Friday morning, my phone died, as if by its own volition.
In concussive contrast to the good times she’s been having in the public eye – highest grossing concert tour in the history of the species; highest grossing concert film to match; on-field kisses with her boyfriend after he won the Super Bowl – Swift’s new ballads are sour theatre, fixated on memories of being wronged and stranded, sodden with lyrics that feel clunky, convoluted, samey, purple and hacky.
“At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger and put it on the one people put wedding rings on”, sings the most celebrated songwriter of her generation on her album’s title track, “and that’s the closest I’ve come to my heart exploding”., she sings in the third person, describing a flame who once “said that if the sex was half as good as the conversation was, soon they’d be pushing strollers”.
Swift almost always steps back into the shallow end, dulling her ideas with reflexive cliches. Lightning appears in bottles. Wrinkles appear in time. Ships are abandoned or gone down with. Plans are best laid. Hearts are cold, cold.Enough. These are highly embarrassing combinations of words made to serve an even more embarrassing narrative: the childish idea that the most famous singer alive should be pitied for living alone atop her mountain top of money, feeling sad and aggrieved.
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