The word “genius” is often thrown around when discussing Taylor Swift’s very personal lyrics.
She even has her own undergraduate course at Harvard.
Money well spent.
And, although I’ve always thought of her as the sort of poet who’d rhyme that word with “know it,” I appreciate that her ripped-from-the-diary style has proven appeal.
Making fans sob in their bedrooms, as she did with “Folklore” and “Evermore,” takes a lot of skill.
This time, however, the hater’s gonna hate hate hate hate hate.
Color me perplexed about the media response to Swift’s strange 12th album, “The Life of a Showgirl,” which came out Friday.
Rolling Stone gave it a perfect five stars. And the New York Times made it a critic’s pick.
Some of the slobbering reviews read like Pravda endorsements — written in paralyzing terror that they might get arrested by the Tay-GB.
Go ahead and lock me up! Because her latest lyrics have nosedived in quality and artistry. They are a frankly laughable blend of clunky cliches, awkward sex jokes and a real Salisbury Steak of celeb beefs that make you shake your head, not shake it off.
Swift’s usual emotional intelligence has been replaced by childish attention grabs — sans catchy hooks or ear worms — like when she tries to force a cafeteria fight possibly with Charli XCX.
“I heard you call me ‘Boring Barbie’ when the coke’s got you brave,” she allegedly says of the “Brat” singer on the song “Actually Romantic.”
Petty, isn’t it?
It’s what’s called a “diss track.” But I’m just going to diss the track. Swift sounds as natural when slinging mud as I do analyzing basketball.
You’re beloved the world over, engaged to a popular NFL player and worth $2.5 billion. Who cares if someone thinks you’re boring?!
In another head-scratcher tune, Swift announces how much she adores her cancelled friends. Some have suggested she’s specifically talking about that old softie Blake Lively.
“Did you girl-boss too close to the sun?,” she sings. Oy. Swift could get a side gig writing novelty T-shirts for millennials.
And then Icarus gives way to ick.
Take this cringey brag from “Father Figure.”
“I can make deals with the devil because my d–k’s bigger,” Swift states with a thud.
At this point, I needed to cleanse the palate with sweet, sweet “Love Story.”
Yet that’s not the only line of this album that suggests she’s entered her Uncomfortable Phallus Joke Era.
Because a song called, ahem, “Wood” is, in large part — so to speak — about what her fiance Travis Kelce’s packing.
“Forgive me, it sounds cocky,” starts one of the more innocent sections. “He ah-matized me and opened my eyes.”
You can guess where this is going. Cute winks soon give way to frat house open mic night.
“Redwood tree. It ain’t hard to see. His love was the key that opened my thighs.”
Subtle!
Still not satisfied with that, she dumps in a bunch more obvious, witless innuendos: “Hard rock,” “a curse on me that’s broken by your magic wand,” “New heights of manhood,” “I ain’t gotta knock on wood.”
If Swift is aiming for camp, “Wood” serves as a reminder that she’s never been very good at that. Remember the wince-worthy “You Need To Calm Down”?
And true, men write and perform songs about sex all the time. Women should too — and do. Nicki Minaj, Sabrina Carpenter and Cardi B, among them. But don’t expect to be compared to Emily Dickinson for crude d–k jokes. No one was out there suggesting Sir Mix-A-Lot was the poet of a generation.
So, “Life of a Showgirl” isn’t Swift’s best. Perhaps she’ll get lucky again with No. 13.
Uh oh.
