I have to concede that I may not be the target demographic but, as I do the daily scan of His Majesty’s Press, the baffling phenomenon of Taylor Swift seems ever more inexplicable in prominence and adoration.
Certain things are obvious. She’s an attractive woman, in an all-American and slightly feline way, and she treads a very nice line between knowing lyrics and catchy pop songs.
A lot of post-vocalic “r” knocking about too, helping female fantasy lines like:
“You got that long hair, slicked back, white T-shirrrt
And I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirrrt..”
Hang together with all the cinna-bun authenticity of the King of Prussia mall. Hey. Let’s hang out.
She lives the dream too. Dating quarterbacks and British actors, some of whom, like Tom Hiddleston, seem rendered equally adolescent by the whole experience.
Quite how she’s extrapolated being very good at winkingly clever bubble gum pop to the great influencer of our age is surely down to social media, its love of lifestyle and the infantilised nature of our times.
We are invited to see Swift as deeply wise. Her views – which are very predictably artsy – rush to embrace all modish American causes with the same enthusiasm as a cheerleader to a Kansas City Chiefs quarterback. For all that, according to The Times, the Right still “covets” her.
I suppose, being fair, this is no more or less a modern phenomenon than JFK finding a fan in Frank Sinatra or Bruce Springsteen and Barack Obama sharing a beer. “This Bud’s for you”.
Across the floor, I seem to think Johnny Cash performed for Richard Nixon and discussed prison reform at the White House. Who knows the ways of American politics but they and showbiz are closely intertwined, as Clint Eastwood and Ronald Reagan would surely affirm.
But Swift is now 34 and has finally recorded the album she “really needed” to make. A record, breathlessly reported by both Times and Telegraph in which, it appears, she lists the many failings of her previous beaux in a compilation entitled The Tortured Poets Department.
British thesps are high on the list of the many, and I quote, who didn’t “measure up.” Surely the lowest, oldest and most predictable female swipe at those who have, erm, come before. “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived.” Ooh-er.
All, in its way, very Cosmo and Femail and doubtless playing to a market of which, I again concede, I am not part. It’s notable that men rarely write revenge songs riffing on the theme; “you got your kit off and, frankly, I wish you hadn’t.” Honestly, ladies, it does happen.
But I wonder, in times to come, whether we’ll all sit back and listen wistfully thinking, “That’s a classic and stood the test of time.” My feeling is not. It’s clever manipulation of the zeitgeist and the spirit of our age doesn’t seem one likely to last. Then again, didn’t someone at EMI once say something similar about the Beatles?
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