Taylor Swift has always loved a costume. From the cottagecore cardigans of “Folklore” to the typewriter romanticism of “The Tortured Poets Department,” each era promises reinvention. “The Life of a Showgirl” advertises itself as glittery, glamorous and bold, but ultimately disappoints.
The pop and soft-rock album sets out to explore performance, femininity and fame, yet unsurprisingly, Swift focuses more on crafting a beautiful and dramatic visual aesthetic than creating genuine emotional depth. She leans heavily on cultural and literary allusions to make her songs seem more profound than they really are. The opener “Fate of Ophelia” references Shakespeare’s Ophelia from “Hamlet,” but only clings to the most “aesthetic” parts—the drowning, the despair.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t read the play—the point is that Ophelia could never be saved and certainly not by a man. Swift’s narrative of being rescued by a lover is quite the opposite and only invokes a vague mood of tragic femininity.
Similarly, Swift leans on name drops in the next song, “Elizabeth Taylor.” While she explores the metaphor further, with imagery like “Cry my eyes violet” and “All my white diamonds” (referencing the actress’ purplish eyes and diamond obsession), the theme of the song is trite: being a celebrity can feel hollow despite all the glitter. Money isn’t everything. How profound! It almost seems like Swift is trying to convince us she’s still clawing her way up in the music industry—“You’re only as hot as your last hit, baby,” she sings,”—when in reality, she’s been running the show for two decades.
Most songs revolve around three recycled ideas: the desire to be worshiped by a lover, the hardships of fame and the cruelty of online culture. There are faint glimmers of potential— “Opalite” shimmers with hopeful metaphor, about moving from pain (“onyx”) to creating happiness (“opalite”).
Sonically, “Opalite” stands out with a vibrant ‘80s feel that reminds me of Stacey Q’s “Two of Hearts.” “Wood,” the ninth track, is reminiscent of Sabrina Carpenter’s clever and cheeky style, but sometimes the explicit sexual innuendo feels forced: “Redwood tree / It ain’t hard to see / His love was the key /That opened my thighs.”
The subject matter of “Honey” struck me as one of the more interesting moments. It’s about reclaiming affection from the language of condescension. It has a touching premise, but circles the same ideas too many times rather than building upon them.
One of the album’s major downfalls is its juvenile lyricism and cringe-worthy internet slang, which often pulled me out of otherwise interesting moments. The obnoxious bravado of “Father Figure”—“I can make deals with the devil because my d*ck’s bigger”—and the buzzword-laden “Eldest Daughter”—“Hot take is cold as ice,” “Unbothered till they’re not”—sound like a millennial author peppering their prose with “trendy” slang in a bid to connect with younger readers. Swift often comes close to poignant lines but stumbles into them poorly: “Every eldest daughter / Was the first lamb to the slaughter / So we all dressed up as wolves and we looked fire.”
While the album has solid tracks like “Opalite” and the titular track “The Life of a Showgirl,” I would rate “The Life of a Showgirl” two out of five stars. The album is bad, even for Swift.
But that’s because it doesn’t need to be good. Her fans will stream and buy the 38 different variants of the album anyway. It’s clear that success for Swift is a matter of quantity, not quality. Swift can afford to stop releasing an album every year and frankly, she should. Creating a meaningful album takes time. However, Swift no longer seems interested in making music that’s interesting—only music that sells.
