Return to America: Taylor Swift’s The Tortured Poet’s Department

BY CALLISTO LODWICK

Everyone has an opinion on Taylor Swift. After being one of the few people whom the COVID-19 pandemic actually aided, she managed to catapult a diminishing pop career to the forefront of popular music and become the Next Big Thing for a second—or was is a third?—time. She came out with two lyrically brilliant, emotionally scathing albums, made a boatload of money by poorly remaking her old hits, released a middling pop album that succeeded only due to name recognition, and went on tour.

At least, that’s one opinion. There are many, many others: the number of differing stances on Taylor Swift’s music is as vast as the music industry itself—a music industry that includes artists that are potentially much better than anything Swift herself churns out. But that doesn’t matter, because Swift has created a brand that has fashioned her into a cultural juggernaut that, no matter how hard you try to resist, is simply impossible to be ignored. It is into this context that Swift’s eleventh studio album, The Tortured Poets Department, enters the scene.

At first listen, Poets seems to stumble over every pitfall its predecessor, Midnights, staggered into: the production of the opening tracks is blandly electronic, Swift’s singing is monotone, the lyrics are rendered clunky from over-writing, and any emotional highs or lows have been scrubbed clean from the track. Swift’s inability to capture emotional resonance in favour of a bored-sounding speak-sing has plagued her since she started to re-release old albums: it seems the passion was flung out of the recording studio in favour of the pursuit of cold, hard cash. Even Post Malone’s inclusion on the opening track, “Fortnight”, doesn’t help matters.

Yet something remarkable happens. An ethereal chorus of high and low notes—some variety, at last!—opens the fifth track, “So Long, London”. The music speeds up, gains a sense of urgency. It is not the world’s best song, by any means, but it is an interesting one. At last, Poets seems to be spreading its wings.

And then comes the most baffling turn of all. The seventh track, unfortunately—or perhaps ironically—titled “But Daddy, I Love Him” includes the twang of a string. “Guilty as Sin?” is heavy on the southern accent. “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)” is resplendent with mentions of the good Lord, pistols, and six-lane Texas highways. Somehow, three of the album’s tracks are straight out of Nashville—a welcome return to roots for Swift, who rose to prominence through the country-pop scene.

A tension between the dull, sleek synth-pop of the city—more specifically, London—and the appeal of the southern US is one of the great tensions of the album. (the screaming denizens of Twitter and Reddit have informed me that a forensic understanding of Swift’s dating life is needed to truly appreciate Tortured Poet’s context, but the basics are rather simple: Swift’s longtime boyfriend was from London. She broke up with him and now has an American boyfriend. There was another English boyfriend sandwiched in between those two. Simple). Regardless of personal motivations, the country tracks are easily the most compelling collection of songs on the album, especially for those of us with Swiftian synth fatigue. The American theme continues as Swift invites Florence + The Machine to tackle the lure of the tropical suburban dream on “Florida”—another standout, once you can get past the dull intro from Swift. Florence’s otherworldly vocals render Swift bland by comparison—Swift’s own attempt to carry out a similar sweeping performance in “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me” is a letdown—but it’s nice to see Swift finally taking a risk and letting other female artists duet her on vocals.

Swift has always had a talent for viral marketing, and she proves even she isn’t resistant to the allure of TikTok with her poppiest track of the album, “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart”. A sadder version of Midnight’s “Bejewelled”, the clever incorporation of concert earpiece cues would make for a compelling gimmick if it weren’t for the constant interruptions of made-for-TikTok soundbites. Swift is clearly desperate for the next TikTok trend to be millennial women and preteens alike lip-synching to such earworms as “I’m so depressed I act like it’s my birthday” and “I’m so obsessed with him, but he avoids me like the plague”, all delivered with the saccharine sweet intonation that puts me in mind of nails on a chalkboard. It’s a shame, because the song is strong enough without these additions—yet it seems too much to hope that Swift will go the route of her 2019 single “Me!” and release a version free of assaults on my ears.

Bafflingly, Swift hides her ballads—traditionally one of her strongest suits—towards the end of the album, where filler tracks are normally stuffed. “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” comes as a sonic, if not thematic, whiplash after “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart”—though it suffers from the typical Swift caveat of a poor opening hiding a bombastic finale. “Clara Bow” is the best of the ballads, and a perfect closing track: it manages to be a truly touching, candid self-reflection, with an air of childlike hope and acceptance (even if Swift slightly obfuscates her privileged upbringing, a lyrical choice I can anticipate starting countless internet spats).

Indeed, the lyrics might be one of the weaker elements of the album. To be very honest, my enjoyment of music has always been primarily based on the melody instead of the lyrics—a little damning for someone pursuing a literary career. A first listen is always one where I barely take in any of the words, instead absorbing the feeling of the music itself—lyrics become little more than sweet sound. However, forcing myself to take in what Swift is saying reveals an album primarily about breaking up, running away, and finding new love along with self-acceptance—all very standard Swift fare. Much of it is beautiful and flows nicely—Swift has a particular talent for alliteration and quick, sharp rhymes that I appreciate—but there are several clunky lyrics that are destined to become objects of internet derision—nobody eats seven bars of chocolate and then professes their love for Charlie Puth (unless I have really boring friends). A few moments of satire are genuinely funny—“I’m having his baby / No I’m not, but you should see your faces” is a standout—but overwritten lines remain an issue throughout the album. All too often Swift rushes to get her lines out and shoehorns extra syllables into lines when what she really needed was an editor (though those florid lyrics will no doubt look very nice in countless Instagram bios and TikTok edits).

There are some people—even though I am not one of them—who loved Midnights. They will eat Tortured Poets up. There are others who enjoy Swift’s older country music: they will also find something to love, albeit less of it. Those who like folkore and evermore will be happy with the ballads, scant as they are. And Florence + The Machine fans will love one song and be more than content. As for the rest of us, The Tortured Poets Department is a confusing album. It has parts that I like, parts that I genuinely enjoy. But there are also songs that make me cringe, and ones that have a strong ending but lack a decent start. The entire album is the epitome of the Taylor Swift of the modern era—a little bland, but with tantalising depth. A listener finishes Poets wishing Swift would push herself some more, let herself experiment, let herself feel. Only then might she be able to create something truly great.

ST.ART Magazine does not own the rights to any image used in this article