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Should I compose a tune regarding Travis Kelce, an individual I’ve yet to encounter, I’d mention his profession in football and his involvement with a podcast. I’d emphasize his impending marriage to Taylor Swift, noting their apparent joy in each other’s company. It’s possible I’d also incorporate a line acknowledging Kelce’s seemingly pleasant personality, highlighting his agreeable aura. If I were truly stretching—a likely scenario, given my lack of familiarity with him—I’d turn to rudimentary physical attributes. He possesses height and remarkably sizable hands (ideal for receiving passes). Additionally, he is quite attractive.
These qualities, and seemingly these alone, are what Swift focuses on in “The Life of a Showgirl,” her latest album, the twelfth from her studio, unveiled on Friday. “Swear loyalty to your hands, your team, your vibes,” she croons in “The Fate of Ophelia,” which also offers a brief allusion to Kelce utilizing his “megaphone”—otherwise known as his podcast, “New Heights”—to openly voice his attraction to her, subsequent to his attendance at one of her Eras Tour performances in 2023. In “Wi$h Li$t,” Swift reveals she “sent wishes on every star” for someone akin to Kelce: “Please, God, give me a best friend who I consider hot.” The ensuing composition, “Wood”—reminiscent of Sabrina Carpenter in theme and the Jackson 5 in sound—is essentially an extended phallic innuendo. (Well, not remarkably extended: at a duration of two minutes and thirty seconds, “Wood” technically claims the title of shortest piece on the entire record.) “Redwood tree, it ain’t hard to see / His love was the key that opened my thighs,” she vocalizes. At one point, she infers that Kelce has attained “New Heights of manhood.” (“Singing about travis kelce’s penis over a Jackson 5 sample should get you taken out back like a rabid dog,” one user expressed on X.)
Upon Swift’s initial announcement of creating a fresh album—during a guest appearance on Kelce’s podcast, co-hosted with his sibling, around August—she declared the melodies emerged from the “most contagiously joyous, untamed, dramatic” chapter of her existence. Regarding her profession, she stood at an apex: she’d initiated composing the record while actively engaged in the Eras Tour. However, she also alluded to her bond with Kelce. Swift depicted his overt endeavors to woo her, continuing with “This is essentially what I’ve been penning songs about desiring to transpire for me since adolescence.” Once they finalized the podcast recording, Kelce proposed marriage to Swift within his garden.
I must concede that, upon learning of the engagement, I promptly pondered its impact on her artistic creations. I readily acknowledge this is a foremost illustration of our inclination to perceive artists less as authentic individuals than as sources of amusement. Furthermore, that is the sort of subject I anticipated Swift to dedicate additional reflection to on “Showgirl,” promoted as an intimate glimpse into the trials of embodying a performer. Swift reigns as the most economically triumphant musician alive, and it could appear, optimally, simplistic, and, negatively, misogynistic, to propose that her romantic involvement would exert any consequence on the merit of her artistry. She had devoted the preliminary years of her profession to confronting a “boy-crazy” persona, largely fueled by the press and her detractors, which she would proceed to satirize within “Blank Space,” her composition concerning her “extensive list of ex-lovers.” Nonetheless, these men haven’t solely been her boyfriends; they’ve functioned as her inspirations. She excels at narrating intimate accounts, rendering them captivating and, notably, evoking a sense of universality. This frequently transpires via substantial employment of allegory: an individual possessing inner and outer splendor becomes “a mansion with a view” (“Delicate”); a deteriorating long-distance affair is epitomized via “the rust that grew between telephones” (“Maroon”). Certain individuals have speculated that “Wood” embodies a satire on a viral 2021 tweet mocking Swift’s compositional approach, wherein a user jested that Swifties must be horrified upon Ariana Grande “singing about sex and doesn’t write it like ‘he stuck his long wood into my redwood forest and let his sap ferment my roots.’ ”
She has invariably demonstrated an aptitude for storytelling, rendering it notable that, as Swift’s liaison with Kelce has deepened, the narrative she imparts regarding him has predominantly persisted as unchanged. On “So High School,” among her initial melodies concerning him, she vocalizes, “You know how to ball, I know Aristotle.” In excess of a year later, upon sharing news of their engagement via Instagram, she captioned the entry “Your English teacher and your gym teacher are getting married.” These delineate the roles they embraced, as well, upon Swift’s appearance on Kelce’s podcast. At one juncture, Swift described segments of her music as “esoteric.” “She’s so hot when she says these big words,” Kelce remarked. Swift provided him a somewhat exasperated expression: “You know what esoteric means!”
Prior to Kelce, Swift’s inspiration resided in Joe Alwyn, a British thespian who seems so affable and modest in reality that he recurrently finds himself cast in cinematic roles as a sexual offender. (“Boy Erased,” “Kinds of Kindness,” and, contingent upon your interpretation of a scene occurring offscreen, “The Brutalist.”) Alwyn embodies the presumptive muse for “Delicate,” “Gorgeous,” alongside other amorous compositions on “reputation”—which, despite being presented as a retribution album, stands as arguably Swift’s most sentimental recording—in addition to a multitude of selections on her ensuing album, “Lover.” (“I’ve loved you three summers now, honey, but I want ’em all,” she performs, on the title piece.) Alwyn and Swift maintained a connection while she conceived “folklore” and “evermore,” the indie, poetic achievements she unveiled amidst the pandemic, and he even aided in authoring a handful of the melodies. (“I just heard Joe singing the entire fully formed chorus of ‘betty’ from another room,” Swift conveyed within her documentary-style concert film, “folklore: the long pond studio sessions.”) Alwyn garners recognition as a songwriter on “Sweet Nothing,” among the most enchanting melodies within Swift’s repertoire, concerning a partner who craves solely your companionship—within a realm demanding everything else—on the “Midnights” collection.
Swift and Alwyn concluded their relationship in 2023, and, roughly a year afterward, she issued “The Tortured Poets Department,” a compilation addressing three inspirations: Alwyn, the 1975’s vocalist Matty Healy, and Kelce. Healy and Swift’s association may have proven controversial and brief, yet I shall remain eternally grateful for it, considering it yielded “Guilty as Sin?,” perhaps the sole genuinely sensual composition Swift has ever crafted. (The track, addressing the allure of imagining a figure you no longer share relations with, suggests Swift exhibits enhanced aptitude in composing regarding the illusion of intimacy as opposed to the physical deed thereof.) Kelce, concurrently, obtained the aforementioned “So High School” (“Brand new, full throttle / Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto”) and “The Alchemy” (“So when I touch down / Call the amateurs and cut ’em from the team / Ditch the clowns, get the crown / Baby, I’m the one to beat”).
Instantly, apprehension enveloped the Swifties. “I’m scared for what’s to come if we get an entire Travis album, I might not even get past half of it,” one admirer expressed on Reddit last year, noting that Swift and Kelce both reached thirty-four years of age, apparently beyond the threshold for juvenile melodies. Other enthusiasts maintained optimism, highlighting that “The Alchemy,” notably, appeared disjointed, almost as if Swift had reworked the song at the eleventh hour to align it with Kelce. (This appeared plausible, given the brevity of their dating period when she finalized the album.) “I don’t think we can judge him as a muse yet,” another Swiftie penned. “We have to wait for a couple more songs to judge it, but I hope they won’t be full of football references.”
The allusions on “The Life of a Showgirl” arguably render football as esoteric. In “The Fate of Ophelia,” Swift conveys to “keep it one hundred” (an intimate jest between Kelce, whose jersey number reads eighty-seven, and Swift, whose favorable integer is thirteen, which, upon combination, equate to a hundred). In “Wi$h Li$t,” Swift juxtaposes herself and Kelce with their more materialistic contemporaries, who “want a contract with Real Madrid” alongside a “spring break that was fucking lit.” Even those compositions divorced from Kelce remain burdened by a fixation on internet vogue, upscale labels, and jargon originating from 2018. “Did you girl-boss too close to the sun?” she questions on “CANCELLED!,” a piece wherein she articulates her penchant for companions “cloaked in Gucci and in scandal.” “Eldest Daughter” embodies a specific letdown, considering its Track 5 placement, a designation Swift invariably reserves for the most revealing composition within her albums. “I’m not a bad bitch / And this isn’t savage,” Swift sings, some seventeen years subsequent to vocalizing “I’m not a princess / This ain’t a fairy tale,” on “White Horse,” which inhabits the fifth slot on “Fearless.” It’s not as though Swift hasn’t gifted us with awkward verses on prior albums, yet it still emanated genuineness. (There truly exists no alternative soul globally who could have conceived the song “ME!,” from “Lover,” and, furthermore, it proved effortless to dismiss it on an album additionally housing “Cruel Summer” and “Death by a Thousand Cuts.”) Despite “Showgirl” presenting lyrical high points—primarily “Father Figure”—to numerous admirers, Swift seemed to have misplaced not solely her delicate finesse but her faculties. “Is there a carbon monoxide leak at her house cause this can’t be the same woman that wrote folklore and evermore,” one individual shared on X. “Can someone tell me if the English teacher showed up?” another inquired on Reddit, remaining deprived of the opportunity to experience the album. “She showed up drunk and the school district fired her,” another user replied.
Many surmised that Kelce represented the underlying dilemma. “He should have been a better muse,” someone posted on X. Several japed that Swift had acquired “secondhand CTE.” Kelce bore responsibility not just for the generic affection compositions, they asserted, but likewise for the album’s additional imperfections, such as the embittered tracks dedicated to Swift’s presumed adversaries. (“It’s also travis kelce’s fault that taylor has to make up enemies,” one person wrote. “He’s really the worst muse in the universe, what the hell is she gonna sing about that.”) Notably, “Actually Romantic,” a diss track seemingly directed towards Charli XCX, teems with amorous tension. As Walden Green observed within his Pitchfork examination, “It’s telling that The Life of a Showgirl’s most sensual line—‘Feels like you’re flirting with me…It’s kind of making me wet’—appears here, and not on any of the songs addressed to Kelce.” Meanwhile, the most intimate—and arguably the most intriguing—composition on the compilation likely embodies “Ruin the Friendship,” which centers not on Kelce but on a longstanding acquaintance with whom Swift regrets failing to pursue a relationship, before his demise. Contrast this with “Honey,” wherein Swift vocalizes, “You can call me ‘honey’ if you want because I’m the one you want.” (Candidly, that hook proves exceptionally infectious, notwithstanding the lyrics not precisely embodying inspiration.) The most heartfelt verse manifests upon Swift declaring her desire for Kelce to embody her “forever-night stand,” in contrast to a one-night stand. (Upon initial reception of the verse, I envisioned Swift referencing furniture. Nightstands, subsequent to all, originate from wood.)
The feeble lyricism has instigated certain of the most toxic and prejudiced anti-Swift discourse I’ve witnessed in recent memory. Certain individuals have proceeded to speculate that Alwyn ghostwrote Swift’s compositions from the start, an especially damaging notion, considering the extent of time Swift has devoted to campaigning not exclusively for recognition as a songwriter but to assert dominion over her personal creations. (I’ve consistently considered Swift to have exaggerated Alwyn’s contributions; when she alluded to his songwriting engagement during the “folklore” concert doc, Jack Antonoff, a producer on the album, seemed surprised.) Certain Swifties, as opposed to engaging in conspiracy theories or disparaging Kelce, have posited that this simply exemplifies Swift’s musical sound upon existing within a contented and secure relationship. “Even jake gyllenhaal was the most generic average dude and she wrote a TEN MINUTE song with incredible lyrics about him,” one admirer noted—and yet the song in question, “All Too Well,” embodied a breakup anthem. Even Swift’s compositions concerning ongoing liaisons frequently harbored an undercurrent of unease; I’ve composed before regarding how “Lover,” despite its titular designation, appeared rather heartbreaking, as Swift persistently invoked matrimony whilst grappling with the notion of a “lover” who eschewed aspirations exceeding precisely that.
Swift’s most protracted and intense association has consistently encompassed the one she maintains with her supporters. The term recurrently bandied about is “parasocial”: Swift’s admirers perceive familiarity with her, cultivating a profound individual rapport with her. They are equally vested in her melodies as in her existence, and, at minimum until now, those entities have evaded conflict. “Travis isn’t, at this point, a tortured relationship,” a fan wrote last year, on Reddit, in a thread about the first wave of disappointing Kelce songs. “Happiness won’t generate the same level of penmanship.” Still, the fan said that they’d prefer to see Swift happy: “Id rather the songs be average Taylor songs if it means she’s in a happy stable relationship.” In the wake of “Showgirl,” Swifties appear somewhat less empathetic. “Can’t wait for the divorce album,” one posted on X.
Should admirers presume that the deficiency within “The Life of a Showgirl” stems from Swift’s contentment, then I would implore them to relisten to the album. Ill will—directed towards virtually all individuals beyond Kelce—permeates the selections. She has adversaries ensconced in Hollywood, ensconced within the music fraternity, and disseminated throughout the internet (“Everybody’s cutthroat in the comments”). In “Wi$h Li$t,” wherein Swift distances herself from individuals desiring “three dogs that they call their kids”—a noteworthy lyric originating from someone who formerly proudly branded herself a “childless cat lady”—she likewise envisions instructing “the world to leave us the fuck alone, and they do.” As one longtime fan wrote on X, “For years it felt like she wrote songs that spoke to the core of the female experience at its most vulnerable. it felt like she lived and learned in parallel with her listeners, and that feeling is gone.” Swift approaches marriage with Kelce, yet it’s feasible that, within “Showgirl,” she severs relations with us. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
