Taylor Swift – The Life of a Showgirl Review

Presumably, Richard Ashcroft moved the release of Lovin’ You back by a week as he knew he couldn’t compete with Taylor Swift. Nobody can, really. Her streaming numbers are eye-watering. Even with Spotify’s pennies per listen, she could add another acre to the grounds of her private runway. Swift comes from a mighty place of privilege, and that makes it a little insincere when she begins writing of everyday heartbreaks. Beyond that well-moneyed spirit it becomes clear through The Life of a Showgirl that the pop sensation still stands for nothing but personal empowerment. Her interest in the issues of today is tertiary to what it will do for the brand, and for the so-called limited vinyl releases. It was egregious on The Tortured Poet’s Department, but that may have been because of the Folklore and Evermore highs before it. Even Midnights was solid compared to these two recent offerings. Swift is now an institution. Even her lowest forms of work will be picked apart by fans blind to scrutiny. Hence the appreciation that’ll come for The Life of a Showgirl.  

Catchy is the aim of all pop music, and that is what The Fate of Ophelia offers. Swift butchers the Shakespearean character, though, for returning listeners, this should be no surprise. Very light examples of what Swift believes is niche enough to empower a listener who knows nothing of the story. Their lack of knowledge is her greatest strength. That, and some relatively solid instrumental work. Nothing outwardly offensive like the previous album, the pop riffs and slowed-tempo style are steady here. It has to be when the topics for Swift’s songs range from an embarrassing ode to Elizabeth Taylor on a song of the same name and a knock at Charli XCX. Attempting to ignite a feud with an objectively better songwriter is a comical move from Swift. It’s about maintaining a relevancy which is what the worst of pop artists see as the end goal, but the offset to that is lacklustre writing.  

Swift, for all her experiences and heartbreaks on the last album, deals with such generalities that it’s impossible to hear this “greatest songwriter” claim come to life. There has been a massive downturn in writing quality over the last three albums, and The Life of a Showgirl struggles immensely. Opalite has horrendous generalities. Life is a song, Swift notes. “It ends when it ends.” Not exactly Proust levels of insight but she has a point. The trouble for The Life of a Showgirl is that, managed a little better, these are hits. There is an insincerity at play throughout this album. It dominated The Tortured Poet’s Department. Public mood has turned on Swift, not because of any specific action, but because she seems to be engaging a stress test in how long a pop artist can go without saying anything of worth. No truth is spoken into power, no story told, however fictional, is interesting enough to return to.  

Where The Life of a Showgirl standouts will be moments of ridiculously poor pop relevancy, there are a few moments of interest. Eldest Daughter has that same fury as Actually Romantic, though the latter track is not about personable heartbreaks and early life thrills but focused on hang-ups. Swift is playing into stereotypes created by those wishing to detract from her for the sake of it. It’s rather telling that they’re now right. The trouble is Swift writes for her listeners, rather than herself. What she’s doing on Ruin the Friendship with stories from the second grade is rather telling. Her listeners are likely there themselves. Penning songs which long for a simpler life and yet trying to kindle fires at old campsites of controversy is an embarrassing part of The Life of a Showgirl. All the songs to follow are measly offerings from an artist who, at this point, should know better and write better than she does. Even the Sabrina Carpenter feature feels faux, but then that absence of individuality is the case for the Espresso hitmaker too. The Life of a Showgirl has some of the most eye-rolling, pathetic songs you’ll hear this year.