TAYLOR SWIFT &
THE DREAMS & ANXIETIES OF
THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT

Can anyone else truly understand what it must feel like to be Taylor Swift? At this very moment, I don’t see how. Thirty-four years old and still a phenomenon in a game that has only really ever valued youth, inexplicably in her commercial prime when most bodies are by now so bruised they have no choice but to walk off the field. But one is the loneliest number, and if her last album, Midnights, saw her speak most directly about fame and all its strangeness, The Tortured Poets Department makes its toll that much harder to ignore. “It’s hell on Earth to be heavenly” she sings over strings – and while she’s lowered the mask of celebrity before – this admission feels different. “Clara Bow” encompasses the envy, wonder and heavy sacrifice those chosen for a dream they craved are ultimately made to endure. How you can give yourself completely, but still be cast aside when your time is up. “Were you writing a book? Were you a sleeper cell spy? In fifty years will all this be declassified?” she asks on “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived,” and instantly, the idea of such a betrayal feels humiliating, but not out of the question. Though “I Can Do It With A Broken Heart,” may be the most explicit song she’s ever written about the unnatural spectacle of the public eye. How it feels to maintain the perfect persona even when things couldn’t be worse. How odd it must be to realize you can be everything to everyone everywhere, but not enough when you’re alone. All are themes she has played with before, but the stakes keep getting higher. On The Tortured Poets Department, love and notoriety feel fully intertwined in her songwriting for the first time, and the fear of being replaced in the hearts of the strangers that know your name and those that actually know you – of not being able to contend with time and its shifting sands – runs deep. 

When an artist of a certain magnitude releases anything, we want it to mean everything, say everything. But experiencing something through that lens of expectation may not always be fair. Sometimes, maybe a song is just a song. Even if our imaginations run wild. Because when we spend time with any artist, we begin to understand what anchors their work. What motivates them, what bothers them – it’s all there either spelled out or to find overtime, and many of her fans go about uncovering any perceived insight into her mind as if listening to a record were some archeological dig – parsing words and brushing away dirt until the shape of her bones is made clear. It can all be a little much. But whatever it was assumed, or hoped, to be before it arrived, her latest will undoubtedly have an impact on those who spend time with it. Across 31 songs, Swift is surprising, eccentric and occasionally maddening as she seeks to move past the wreckage, abandoning the idea of perfection in favor of something more brutal. Lyrically, The Tortured Poets Department embraces its jagged edges and straightforward assertions to match the darker, harsher sounds of mourning. When it works, she reckons with the sting of hurt in ways she hasn’t before, unlocking a fresh perspective that comes to life in beautiful, vivid color. When it doesn’t, it feels like a return to places we’ve already been. 

Underneath a pop star sheen and high gloss production, is the quiet understanding that we are never really in control. Her latest is fully rooted in that feeling from the beginning, alluding to something so much bigger than ourselves whenever she speaks of a final chapter we can’t possibly yet know. “Come one, come all, it’s happening again” she announces in “How Did It End?” – inviting anyone already craning their neck to watch as her grief turns into some kind of twisted amusement. Because we – as everyone finds out – will not get to choose the ending. And we can’t change what’s already been decided. It’s a force of nature, not unlike a fire, when something slips from our grasp with such intensity and chaos and finality. Like a disaster that’s already in motion, that you can’t help but fall in line with, watching, silent and unable to move, as the avalanche starts. “The Prophecy” follows that idea even further, with Swift wondering just how she can revise what she fears has already been written in stone. Ultimately, it all seems to be left up to the stars, and she’s crushed every time she feels them pull on her joints like a puppet, moving her, again, in a direction she’d rather not go. 

For all its complexity and imperfection, The Tortured Poets Department is a superstar at her most human – flawed and adrift, and not particularly concerned or invested in what anyone else has to say about it. And there is power in that, which Swift revels in, relishing every second of fresh air on a brand new day. As if she fell through the ice, then came out alive.

by Caitlin Phillips
05.27.2024