It is a collection of guitar-driven hits with a slick, commercial sheen. The setting, on her first two albums, is high school, but the lyrics are layered with dreamy images that could have come from the romantic imagination of a much younger child—princes, fairy tales, kissing in the rain. Award for Entertainer of the Year, a C. Award for Video of the Year, and a Grammy for Album of the Year—and she has been nominated for six categories at the upcoming C.
Awards, more than any other solo artist. Her work has received almost uniformly positive reviews, although most of them portray her more as a skilled technician than as a Dylanesque visionary.
Like Parton, Swift writes autobiographical songs, a technique that, in the Internet era, is a clever marketing device. Swift has an affinity for codes and symbols. I just love the sound of his name.
On the red carpet at the Met, Swift stood still before the cameras. Then she walked up the stairs, letting Erickson usher her through a series of TV interviews. Nice to meet you. Step away from the beauties! Swift neared the top of the stairs and froze.
Her mouth dropped open, and she seemed to sway a bit. She eventually left the stage without speaking. The event—replayed endlessly on television and online—ended in mortification for West. If the Kanye West incident did not reflect badly on Swift, it did forecast some backlash about her ascent. Critics have always gone after her voice, which sounds warbly and sweet on albums but has sometimes been off pitch in concert.
A few months later, at the Grammy Awards, she gave a disastrous live performance in which she harmonized off key with Stevie Nicks. At the Costume Institute Gala, Swift hesitated for a second, and then, realizing that there was no time to wait for advice, continued walking up the stairs toward West. When it was over, Swift stopped just inside the museum, looking giddy. You just end up telling her everything!
Wendi Murdoch eyed Swift with approval. I love her music. Swift describes this decision as an artistic rather than a moral one. According to reports in the press, Swift recently bought a Colonial-style house in Beverly Hills that would be right at home on Nantucket.
The building has concierge service and a pool scene, where a crew of Vanderbilt grads like to socialize around a fire pit. Swift bought the apartment when she was nineteen, when her friends all went off to college, and spent two years decorating it with antiques. At home, Swift spends most of her off time with band members, friends, and family—going out for coffee, cooking group dinners.
Twenty-two eighteen-wheelers were parked outside, bearing gauzy portraits of her face, along with the logo of Covergirl, which is sponsoring her tour. Swift professes a kind of auteur approach to marketing. Swift approaches her career with the seriousness of a C. Every two years, she puts out an album, for which she writes about forty songs.
She composes by singing melodies onto her iPhone as voice memos, and writing down lyrics in the Notes section.
And written in my diary more. She gets cold easily. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, with curly tendrils falling down around her face, and she had on her bright-red lipstick. One of the dancers in the show ran by in a hillbilly outfit. She is especially close with Liz Huett, a backup singer, and Caitlin Evanson, her violinist. The three share a dressing room, and, when I was there, they were all lying on a couch with their legs draped over one another.
The tour is run by Robert Allen, a pudgy, gray-haired Englishman whose brother is the drummer for Def Leppard. Allen is given to rah-rah statements about the size of the production. Eighty-two set carts. Ninety instruments—violins, percussions, banjo, a harp. Approximately eight miles of electric cable get put up per day. Taylor Swift contributes to every detail of the show.
People bring her things: bottles of water, a Styrofoam bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. At one point, Swift and her mother were backstage, preparing for a meeting about onstage video content. Because the ones that they gave me yesterday I left in my condo. It turned out that an assistant had forgotten them. Andrea Swift groaned.
Swift took the fall. She was born not in the small-town South but in Reading, Pennsylvania. Her mother worked in finance, and her father, a descendant of three generations of bank presidents, is a stockbroker for Merrill Lynch. He bought the tree farm from a client. Early on, Swift assumed that she would follow her parents into business. The melodies were good, but she especially liked the storytelling. There is a YouTube clip of a chubbier Swift, in a headband and cardigan, belting out the national anthem.
But it might also have been related to her natural primness. I want to call my mom! Swift had already decided to become a songwriter. When she was ten, her mother began driving her around on weekends to sing at karaoke competitions.
Songwriting became a sanctuary from the horrors of middle school. The Swifts continued to return to Nashville, where Taylor played in industry showcases; at thirteen, she was offered a development deal by RCA, a Sony Music subsidiary. The following year, the Swifts moved. Her father transferred to the Nashville office of Merrill Lynch, and the family bought a large house on a lake in Hendersonville, Tennessee, a borderline rural area where Johnny Cash used to live. We have a talent show next week—do you want to enter?
She was a star. She lit up the room. She was very easy to root for. Swift, as a teen-age singer-songwriter, was an anomaly in the country-music industry. The predominant model is the songwriter workshop: writers churn out material in groups of two or three, and the results are hawked by a song-plugger, so that superstars like Tim McGraw can pick their favorites.
There had, of course, been other teen-age singers—from Tanya Tucker to LeAnn Rimes—but they often performed material written by and for middle-aged listeners.
As part of her publishing deal, she was matched with professional songwriters. Her mother would set up the writing sessions and drive her there. She eventually began writing regularly with Liz Rose, a middle-aged Texan who co-wrote many of the songs on her first two albums.
Some have objected that Swift promotes a noxious, fifties-style ideal of virginal, submissive femininity. The song sketches out the experiences of Swift and her best friend from high school, Abigail, a University of Kansas student who has become a demi-celebrity among Swifties. More like Speak softly and smile a lot. In person, Swift has a quietly ironic sense of humor. That was incredible. At every stop on the tour, six workers take five hours to transform a cinder-block holding room into an exotic tented emporium to greet fans.
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