Production gives this era fresh legs, even if the pen lags behind—especially across the first two thirds. Still, the peaks (“Honey,” “Life of a Showgirl”) sparkle hard enough to earn the replay.
I’ve liked Taylor Swift’s music for as long as I can remember. I can still see my dad calling me over to the TV when I was little — “This girl is only fifteen” — as Taylor, golden ringleted and fearless, sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I loved her early work; as a kid, “Speak Now,” and “Sparks Fly” were staples. I adored Red and 1989 —meven in eighth grade I thought they were pop perfection (though “Shake It Off” grated on me). The move from country to pop never bothered me; I was happy to be along for the ride.
I don’t consider myself a “Swiftie,” though. She’s been a lifelong fixture, but I care more about the music than the culture around it. The fandom can be intense, and that’s fine — it’s just not why I listen. Reputation is where she started to lose me; the lyrics felt tinny and one-note. Folklore and Evermore were oddly unpolished and, for me, hard to get through. Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department fully lost the plot—production I didn’t enjoy paired with writing I didn’t find compelling.
Which brings me to Life of a Showgirl. My favorite things here are “Honey” and the title track. “Honey” works because idea, sound, and writing line up. One of the places she often falls flat, in my opinion, is when those three are out of sync—great concept, mismatched sonics, lyrics that don’t carry the weight. In “Honey,” the simple writing actually fits the light, easy love she’s describing, and the whole thing feels fully formed. Sonically, it’s the most interesting track on the album — noticeably different from the rest. Do I love every line? Not really. The bathroom-line drama (“back up, your man looked at me”) feels trivial for someone at her level. But I can set that aside and enjoy it as effortless, repeatable pop.
“Life of a Showgirl” is the crowning jewel. It’s the most coherent and vocally engaging song on the record. Taylor’s lead and Sabrina’s timbre blend beautifully, creating a tangy, addictive shimmer that pulls you in line by line. The writing is also the best here; the rhyme scheme supports the theme instead of feeling like an afterthought. The melody is sticky and interesting. I really enjoyed this one.
Where the album stumbles is the first two thirds, where the pen lags behind the production. Tracks like “The Fate of Ophelia,” “Elizabeth Taylor,” and “Opalite” feel interchangeable. Their intros are sonically promising — clean, modern, and more spacious than a lot of recent pop, with that Clairo-adjacent haze —but once the verses land, there isn’t much depth to dive into. I don’t love saying it, but the writing often feels juvenile: rhymes are weak, diction is common and uncomplicated, and the ideas aren’t radical or new. It leans on proper-noun bingo and tidy sentiments rather than details that cut. “CANCELLED!” —an alleged dig at Britney Mahomes, or Blake Lively, or maybe Kylie Kelce — is especially weak.
Exhibit A (from “Cancelled”):
Did you girlboss too close to the sun?
Did they catch you having far too much fun?…
Good thing I like my friends cancelled? I like ’em cloaked in Gucci and in scandal
Like my whiskey sour
And poison thorny flowers
Welcome to my underworld
Where it gets quite dark
At least you know exactly who your friends are
They’re the ones with matching scars from cancelled.
As writing, this feels dated and imprecise: meme-era buzzwords (“girlboss,” “cancelled”), brand-drop filler (“Gucci”), and mixed metaphors (Icarus ? cocktails ? underworld) that never resolve into a coherent image. The result is a vibe, not a picture — you can’t see or feel the moment beyond the label.
Now, the positives: production-wise, this is her most distinguished album since 1989. It finally feels like we’re breaking away from the tired, overplayed Jack Antonoff palette. The mixes are cleaner and breezier; the overall sound feels new and fresh for Taylor—even if it’s not new for pop at large. If you listen to Laufey, Clairo, or beabadoobee, you’ll recognize the palette. That doesn’t diminish how good it sounds here; it just means the novelty is relative.
All in all, this is solidly her most listenable album since 1989. It has more potential for radio play and everyday listening than the last few records. She sounds like she’s grown craft-wise since her previous era, but not necessarily in perspective. The lyrical complaints she documents are often narrow in scope—surface-level, self-focused slights that don’t expand into something larger or more universal. I wish she’d recognize that she’s, quite literally, Taylor Swift—one of the most famous and powerful artists on the planet. Writing about tiny interpersonal skirmishes doesn’t make her relatable; it makes the canvas feel small.
Life of a Showgirl is the first time in years I’ve pressed play and felt the lift before the lyrics landed. That matters. The production cleans the slate, the sequencing moves, and the two undeniable highs—“Honey” and the title track—prove there’s still a lane where her pop instincts feel effortless. I just want the writing to meet the moment. If the next phase pairs this cleaner sound with sharper, more adult detail — less meme-speak, more lived-in specificity—she could deliver something truly lasting. Until then, this one earns its spins on vibe alone: a reset worth hearing, and a reminder that when she edits the noise, the music breathes.
