Center of Gravity

I’ve been a Taylor Swift fan since middle school. There was a point when I thought she’d always be there, a backup singer to my every triumph and heartbreak. But then, I grew up, and so did she. Her most recent release represents something of a breaking point in my already fraying relationship to her art. However, art is always reflective, if nothing else. The following is a guest essay on Taylor’s Life of a Showgirl penned by my brother-in-law. I found his voice compelling, generous, and insightful; I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.  

I am the furthest thing from a Taylor fan. Not saying that I hate her or anything—she’s had a generational run, producing several cultural moments and impacting the psyche of people everywhere. I can’t deny it, even I sing along at the top of my lungs when I hear her hits. Even after the rise, the interruptions, the bad blood, the guest appearances, the drama, the reclaiming, and the eras, Taylor Swift still manages to be one of the most viewed and talked about musicians. She and Travis are the embodiment of Americana: a blonde “country girl” who sings of heartbreak and the bear-shaped tight end with 800 receiving yards. Vanilla is as vanilla does.

So, imagine my surprise when I woke up today hearing people on the internet coming for Taylor’s wig. “The musical range of Taylor is so little, she can’t do this anymore, she’s washed, I can’t relate to this at all, this is a cash grab, a diluted and disingenuous smear of content, pretending to be something it isn’t.” Oh man! Has artist fatigue finally wrapped around to consume her? And so, I figured I’d try something new. I decided to finally look into Taylor Swift’s Life of a Showgirl, wondering what kind of things it would say about her experience and her existence. Little did I know that this album would raise more questions about me than it did about Taylor.

Typically whenever I look into new media or want to really delve into something, you’ll find me quipping away at whatever I see. It’s a comedic style honed by years of playing Jackbox, watching Let’s Plays, and having relatively below average charisma and looks. I live-tweet my thoughts, shout jokes, and make my honest and raw opinion known.

I am a fan of EDM and hip hop, punk rock and chaotic Japanese rhythm game music. But after going to Coachella once, I have been taking this year to expand my musical horizons. I support my local artists, encourage the kids I work with to express themselves musically, and patronize the performers who showcase their talent. I produce electronic music, write songs, and DJ for fun (not a plug, but hey). I’ve always felt so different from everyone else for not enjoying pop, liking game of thrones, or watching football or baseball. As a guy who is chronically online and raised on the internet, I felt my interests have always been pretty fringe. And yet, I am a cis straight Filipino American man in his 30s working in healthcare who plays basketball and DJ’s for fun (once again, not a plug). Vanilla is as vanilla does. That’s the thing—you can go to the ice cream aisle and you’ll find 5 different kinds of vanilla.

Everything that everyone does is a vanilla thing unto itself. Lately, that’s all I have been doing,  engaging with other people’s vanillas. I watch college football now. I support teams. I went back to console gaming. I eat sandwiches for lunch. I like Katseye. I never ever thought I would be stanning a pop group but here I am. No longer is it this chase for variety, but an experimentation with homogeneity. Fuck cookies and cream, pistachio, or rainbow sherbet. I’ve traded hunting for outlandish flavors and unique experiences for participating in the home around me and watering where I have been planted. Seeing what all the fuss is about.

And so finally we come back to Life of a Showgirl.

This album did a solid job of matching all of today’s musical aesthetics; guitar loops, a pinch of grunge, of vaporwave, of some 3rd reconstruction of 80’s nostalgia bleeding into the 90’s; all with the enamel cover of pop shielding it from any technical criticism. But I love to read albums, and the lyrics are where it fell apart. Through the first parts of the album, informed by the opinions of my wife (longtime swiftie) and by those on the internet, it was a hard listen. On several accounts I took my headphones off and said to my wife, “this is ass.” Then, I kept listening. It slowly got a little better, but even then… vanilla is as vanilla does.

My favorite tracks on the record were Actually Romantic (pick-me anthem you belong with me sequel lookin ass song gaylor lore type shit) and Wi$h Li$t. Both of these songs sat with me for a while after I listened to them, sonically nestling into my brain. The words actually provided me with a window to Taylor and possibly a mirror to me. But even with those couple of high points, I’m never singing any of these songs, ever. None of these were iconic songs like Shake It Off or Our Song or Bad Blood, or Cool Summer, or Never Grow Up or You Belong With Me or Lover or Love Story. Once I had reached the album’s titular finale, I was greeted by a laundering spin cycle of all of the horrendous, goofy lyricism with this end credits soundtrack, begging for sympathy by saying “Hey, I’m just a (show)girl.” and it was then that I found myself truly listening.

As a musician, I’ve always found it interesting to get to know people through their music, either by their tastes or by their own creations. Each drum and tick, each chord change and dialed filter sizzling in my ear; all of these are meant to bring a sense of joy, to make us listen. So, when Porter Robinson, one of my favorite artists, dropped Knock Yourself Out XD and hit us with the iconic line “don’t know my schedule on the fifth, bitch I’m Taylor Swift”, I knew he was cooking. Porter and Taylor have repeatedly mused on the plight of being famous, how people don’t truly like you. That, when all eyes are on you, you have to wear a mask. They express that, at worst, fame makes you horrible to the people closest to you, and even to yourself. What’s worse, people then beg for a version of you that’s long gone, a version that can never be replicated. The craziest part is that, somehow, I can relate. Me, the not-famous, middle class, Filipino vanilla, relating to the anime boy from North Carolina and the private jet princess millionaire.

As a business owner, dentist, and (recovering) people pleaser, I know the burdens that we have to shoulder as known quantities. People look up to me. I am responsible for so fucking much sometimes. If I fail, it’s all on me. People’s livelihoods depend on me, yet no one seems to really care. They keep asking for more, and the moment I stop moving, all else stops. As recompense, I have asked the rest of the world for the same. Give me everything. Project the movie into my eyes. Inject the bass into my ears. Feed me my nutrients in the most insane configuration possible to let my heart feel like the debt is finally paid. But just like my student loans, it is never, ever paid off. Another day comes, and it’s back to pushing my sisyphean Camry to the same office every Monday. Now, I realize this cycle has to stop. If I no longer ask everything of the world, maybe it wont ask everything of me. I’ll know who I am and what I want. So come Friday, all I really want is my wife, a driveway with a basketball hoop, and for everyone to leave us the fuck alone. Maybe then I can eat my scoop of vanilla ice cream in peace.