Last week at the Grammys, Taylor Swift was the star and not just because of her daring dress or her new haircut.
Swift made history as the first woman to win the Grammy for Album of the Year twice. This is the review of the winning album, “1989”, by our music critic Jon Caramanica. For almost a decade, Swift has known how to win her battles, always with a smile.
Country music has been (or rather, was) her declared enemy: rigid, slow, and s---st. However, country was also a welcoming home. In that genre I had very little competition.
Most importantly, country gave Swift context. She made her a transgressor and even her most benevolent songs could be interpreted with malice. From the outside, she seemed to be a colossal conqueror, but the truth is that she was always at a disadvantage. Multi-platinum albums and awards were of no use.
It has long been clear that she would one day give up country. But with “1989,” her fifth album and the first not to include this type of music, she created a new enemy.
The album is full of well-constructed, yet neutral, songs that explore heartbreak. The album doesn't want to start fights, but with her effective and carefree style, it's clear that she has an implicit enemy: the rest of pop music, which has almost nothing in common with “1989.” Today's stars, or rather, white pop singers, are successful by imitating black music. Let's think of Miley Cyrus, Justin Timberlake, Justin Bieber. In today's climate, Katy Perry probably relies the least on hip-hop and R&B to create her sound, but her most recent hit is a collaboration with rapper Juicy J, so it's not even She is immune.
Swift is different, though: what she doesn't do on this album is just as important as what she does do. Her idea of pop music dates back to the mid-'80s, when pop wasn't such a hybrid genre. This allows her to create a popular sound without having to resort to current microtrends and without being accused of cultural appropriation.
The singer has built a narrative in which she is the novice among the experts, the simple one in a sea of pretentious people, the small-town girl who is learning to live in the city.
In that sense, the most important decision that Taylor Swift made in recent years has nothing to do with music: she bought an apartment in New York, a penthouse in TriBeCa that cost her $20 million.
It was a change of scenery that gave her another chance to appear naïve. In Nashville she already knew the rules, all the shortcuts. She is now free to turn her life into the romantic comedy she always imagined. That's “1989,” which begins with “Welcome to New York,” a celebration of freedom, a shimmering but weak song: “Here, everyone was someone else / And you can like whoever you want.” (To be tolerant, those lyrics are ten steps away from being a cheesy motivational message.)
In this new stage, Swift is also successful. She and she is doing it alone, since she is not part of any pop style of the moment. She has set herself apart from others and, implicitly, she too is above them.
The '80s era of pop that she draws inspiration from was a clash of sleaze and romanticism, of the human and the digital. But there's nothing sleazy about Swift's voice. Her proposal with that sound was refined to the point of shine. The album, titled after the year she was born, was produced by Swift and Max Martin, architects of the last decade of pop. Although what stands out most in this album is her self-control.
By creating pop music with very few contemporary references, Swift aims to go even further, with a timeless sound that few artists achieve, apart from Adele, for example. The others, who have managed to recreate the current sound, will have to change their style as soon as trends change. But that won't happen with Swift, who is fighting—and winning—a new war, a battle she would never admit to having participated in.
