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Isn’t it fascinating how certain celebrities, like Taylor Swift, have become almost untouchable in the public eye? Any critique can easily be framed as “hate,” or as an attack on feminism or womanhood. I have thoughts about Life of a Showgirl, her latest album, and I know some readers may not agree with me, and that’s okay. Criticism is how we grow and expand our perspectives. The observations I’ll share aren’t personal attacks but reflections on how this record fits within Swift’s larger artistic and cultural trajectory.
This album has clearly divided listeners, from casual fans to devoted Swifties. As someone who has spent years immersed in fandom culture (I was a proud Directioner once upon a time), I understand how protective fans can be of their faves. Offering even mild criticism can sometimes feel risky.
I want to approach this with respect and honesty, because that’s what real discussion about art deserves.
When I went to the Life of a Showgirl premiere film, I made a point not to listen to any of the album beforehand. I wanted a completely fresh experience. Unfortunately, I left feeling underwhelmed for three main reasons:
- I only connected with about two songs in total.
- The lyric videos highlighted how much Swift’s songwriting seems to have plateaued in recent years.
- I felt like I had given in to the soul sucking capitalism that has become Swift’s main branding at this point.
During the film, Swift gives short explanations about the inspiration behind certain songs, pleasant but surface-level. Her frequent “ya know?’s” try to create a sense of casual intimacy, but for me, it also underscored a disconnect between her billionaire lifestyle and the working-class narratives she often invokes.
I’ve been listening to Taylor Swift since I was nine or ten years old. I’ve admired her evolution and resilience, but I’ve also noticed a creative stagnation that’s hard to ignore. Many of the songs on Life of a Showgirl feel familiar, formulaic, written for the same audience she’s always targeted. It’s not necessarily a flaw to stick with what works, but after nearly two decades in music, I was hoping for something more daring, more self-aware.
I expected Life of a Showgirl to be a bold, theatrical big-band album, something playful, self-aware, maybe even campy, because that was what Swift was showing us with her accompanying visuals for the album. Instead, what we got was a familiar wash-rinse-repeat formula that Swift has relied on for much of the past decade.
The Fate of Ophelia opens the album on a promising note musically, but lyrically it falls flat. Swift has said she didn’t reread Hamlet before writing it, and that shows. In Shakespeare’s text, Ophelia’s death is often interpreted as an act of reclaiming agency in a life defined by others. When Swift sings, “You saved me from the fate of Ophelia,” it feels thematically confused, suggesting lost agency rather than empowerment. It’s not an inherently bad song, but it lacks the lyrical depth she’s historically capable of, relying instead on glossy production and visuals to fill the gaps.
Elizabeth Taylor was a pleasant surprise. It offers a fresh sound and a theatrical flair that fits perfectly within the “showgirl” concept. There’s groove, confidence, and genuine fun in this track, and I wish she’d carried that same energy through more of the album.
Unfortunately, after that, the record slips back into the familiar Swiftian pattern, melodic comfort zones paired with increasingly self-referential lyrics. Which brings me to the writing itself.
Take Father Figure, for example. The line “I can make deals with the devil because my dick’s bigger” aims for edge but lands awkwardly. The song draws inspiration from George Michael’s Father Figure, with the blessing of his estate, but despite its moody tone, it never quite earns its gravitas. Later research revealed it’s meant to be about Swift reclaiming her masters, a theme that could have added depth had it been more explicitly woven into the song or her film commentary. Instead, it feels like a missed opportunity.
Then there’s Eldest Daughter, a track that, by title alone, should have been cathartic for anyone familiar with “eldest daughter syndrome.” Instead, it pivots into a love song reportedly about Travis Kelce, which left me genuinely confused. The eldest daughter experience, marked by responsibility, caretaking, and a unique kind of resilience, could have made for rich storytelling. Turning it into another romance number felt like a disservice to that concept.
As someone who reads and writes about romance often, I know when a love song rings hollow, and this one does. Lines like “I’m not a bad bitch / and this isn’t savage” don’t add much emotional weight or originality. They sound trendy for trendiness’ sake, and I suspect we’ll be seeing them as Instagram captions for years to come.
Ruin the Friendship is another low point for me. Rather than a thoughtful exploration of boundaries and longing, it veers into territory that feels ethically questionable. The narrative describes a romantic advance toward a friend who’s already in a relationship, and not in a way that acknowledges the moral tension of that choice. What’s framed as a story of “risking it all for love” instead reads as boundary-crossing and sexual harassment. It’s uncomfortable, not because it’s daring, but because it doesn’t seem aware of what it’s implying.
Actually Romantic attempts to reclaim some bite by throwing shade at critics and peers (including Charli XCX), but it lands more like a vent than a statement. It’s a diss track without conviction, especially knowing Swift has collaborated with artists like Kendrick Lamar, who could have elevated it to something more substantive. And as a personal aside: I can’t imagine voluntarily admitting to being ghosted by Matty Healy.
Wi$h Li$t leans on stylized excess, the dollar signs in the lyric video, the brand-name drops, the rebellious swearing, but none of it feels purposeful. There’s potential here for a sharp commentary on fame, wealth, or performance, but instead it comes across as surface-level posturing. I couldn’t help thinking this could’ve been a standout “showgirl” anthem if it had leaned into the metaphor of longing for more than luxury.
Wood caught my attention for an entirely different reason, it sounds suspiciously like I Want You Back by The Jackson 5. There are no credits listed, but the resemblance is uncanny. That same pattern extends beyond cultural aesthetics to creative borrowing. Throughout Life of a Showgirl, there are noticeable sonic similarities to the work of other artists from The Pixies, The Jonas Brothers, Jordan Sparks, Post Malone, The Ronettes, Sophia the First, Luis Miguel and I’m sure many more, yet only the Jonas Brothers are credited.
This stands in sharp contrast to how Swift herself has insisted on being acknowledged as a songwriting influence by artists like Olivia Rodrigo. It’s a double standard that undercuts her reputation as a champion for creative integrity and ownership. If an artist demands credit for their work, they should model that same respect for others.
Another point of concern is “Opalite.” On the surface, it’s meant to be an ethereal pop track, but some of its imagery and phrasing echo long-standing stereotypes that feel tone-deaf in 2025.
“Opalite” has drawn attention for its phrasing and imagery, particularly the line “onyx night,” which some listeners interpret as referencing Travis Kelce’s relationship history in ways that unintentionally echo racialized dynamics. This combined with Eldest Daughter which also incorporates slang and expressions that originated in black culture, words like “bad bitch” and “savage,” without clear acknowledgment of that influence. When taken together, these choices highlight a broader conversation about how mainstream pop artists sometimes adopt the language and aesthetics of black women while distancing themselves from the people and communities who created them. It’s a reminder that even well-intentioned art can reinforce stereotypes when cultural context is overlooked.
While it may not be intentionally harmful, the song’s language and aesthetic choices come across as dismissive of the cultures it borrows from. This isn’t new territory for Swift — she’s been called out before for overlooking the implications of her artistic references — but it’s disappointing to see the same patterns reemerge here.
Then comes CANCELLED!, arguably the album’s most provocative track. It appears to critique “cancel culture,” but the message feels muddled. The lyrics suggest that Swift judges people not by their actions but by their loyalty to her, “I like my friends cancelled / I like ’em cloaked in Gucci and scandal.” It’s a clever turn of phrase, but it inadvertently highlights the contradiction in her carefully managed public persona: an artist who champions empowerment yet often surrounds herself with individuals whose values seem to clash with that image.
Without diving too far into politics, it’s worth noting that CANCELLED! underscores a pattern: Swift often speaks out when it aligns with her brand, but rarely when it might cost her something. Her position in pop culture is nearly unassailable, one of privilege and immense influence. When that power isn’t used meaningfully, it becomes hard to defend her as the activist some fans claim she is.
To put it bluntly but fairly: Life of a Showgirl feels more like an exercise in brand preservation than an artistic evolution. Album variants, inflated first-day sales, and a sense of scarcity all point to a marketing machine running at full throttle. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with commercial success, the gap between Swift’s message and her methods continues to grow.
At 35, she’s no longer the ingénue navigating fame, she’s a seasoned mogul who understands the industry better than most. Which is precisely why it’s disappointing that Life of a Showgirl doesn’t take more creative or emotional risks.
Swift has always been a master at narrative control, but in doing so, she’s begun to blur the line between authenticity and artifice. The empathy that once grounded her storytelling feels increasingly replaced by self-reference and spectacle.
Still, it’s not all bleak. The title track, featuring Sabrina Carpenter, closes the album on a surprisingly strong note. It’s vibrant, cohesive, and captures the showgirl aesthetic I’d hoped for throughout the record. Carpenter’s presence adds energy and contrast that make the song truly work.
If only the rest of Life of a Showgirl had matched that same spirit.
And, one last small note: it may be time for Swift to retire the word “bitch” from her songwriting vocabulary. The term feels less empowering and more outdated, a relic of a brand of feminism that’s struggled to evolve alongside its audience.
In many ways, Life of a Showgirl feels like a turning point in Taylor Swift’s career, though perhaps not the one she intended. It’s an album that tries to say something grand about identity, fame, and reinvention, but ends up revealing how difficult it can be for an artist at her level to stay grounded in genuine self-expression.
Swift remains one of the most talented songwriters and marketers of her generation, and there’s no denying the influence she wields over the industry. But influence without evolution can only sustain an artist for so long. Life of a Showgirl is polished, marketable, and meticulously produced, yet it lacks the spark of curiosity and storytelling that once defined her best work.
That’s not to say there isn’t value in the album, there are moments of real creativity and glimpses of the artist she could still become if she chose to shed the brand armor and embrace vulnerability again. But for now, this record feels more like a carefully managed performance than a meaningful artistic statement.
Taylor Swift has built an empire by mastering her own mythology. What remains to be seen is whether she’s ready to step off the pedestal, and rediscover what made her music matter in the first place.
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