#the pitchfork review

[nonesuchrecords]

Laurie Anderson is on latest episode of The Pitchfork Review podcast. The episode features her conversation with Pitchfork Editor-in-Chief Puja Patel, Kim Gordon, and writer/editor Sinéad Gleeson from the Chicago Humanities Festival in May 2022. They discuss This Woman’s Work, an essay anthology edited by Gordon and Gleeson, which includes a piece about Anderson, and more. You can hear their conversation here.

[zot3-flopped]

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

[tswift]

I wish taylor would fight back like there is something so sus going on with the reviews and these planted articles talking about how swifties are sick of music like bitch what????

at the very least she should release a very shady music video for who's afraid of little old me. the industry cannot handle her success they're sick of her always winning so they're trying to turn the gp against her like I did not live through 2016 to see shit like this happen again

[pisboy]

"teen girls need music to relate to" noooooope. dad's shitty metallica CDs

[operator-report]

My last two Worm posts have been downers so let’s answer one of the most crucial (to me) characterization questions ever: what is each Traveler’s favorite Radiohead album?

Noelle: The Traveler most likely to listen to Radiohead for real, in canon. Noelle came across an album called OK Computer one day and was like “I mean I like computers” and was greeted with the most anxious, dissociative and lush nerd music of all time. She was then immediately hooked. OK Computer is still Noelle’s favorite. Paranoid Android literally happened to her. So did all those car crashes Thom Yorke sings about although that’s maybe a bit more metaphorical. Her one bad Radiohead opinion is that she skips Electioneering when she’s listening to the CD in the car.

Krouse: Started listening to Radiohead when he found out Noelle liked them; has only heard OK Computer and Kid A but pretends to know their entire discography. Thinks Kid A is the best Radiohead album because that’s the critically accepted Correct Opinion and he knows more about [insert topic here] than you do. Krouse can quote Kid A’s Pitchfork review from memory.

Marissa: Noelle didn’t show Krouse Radiohead on purpose because she was worried he’d make a joke about the band being cliche. She did show them to Marissa. Marissa does not like Radiohead. Whenever Noelle listens to Radiohead in the car she gets a little bummed out on Noelle’s behalf, but hey, whatever makes her happy. In Rainbows is their least worst album but like. Why does that guy sing like that don’t you want to listen to Paramore instead Noelle.

Jess: As the Traveler with the best taste by, like, a mile, Jess likes In Rainbows for real. She thinks the pay-what-you-want release was a cool and revolutionary thing for bands to do in the ~internet age~ and thinks the songs whip too. She will encourage you not to forget In Rainbows Disk 2. Krouse has no idea that In Rainbows Disk 2 exists and thinks that Jess is fucking with him every time she brings it up (she is).

Luke: Luke can name a couple of 90’s-era Radiohead singles and doesn’t mind jokingly singing Creep at karaoke. In a pre-Simurgh fit of being Down Bad For Noelle, Krouse informed him that Pablo Honey is bad so he says his favorite is The Bends, as instructed by Krouse, if anyone asks. Will then quickly switch the topic of conversation to Green Day.

Oliver: Went on a parallel journey to Krouse in which he found out about Radiohead through Noelle and decided to listen to them because he thinks Noelle is cool. The big differences between Oliver and Krouse are (1) he has listened to OK Computer, Kid A, Amnesiac, and In Rainbows; and (2) he likes Kid A for non-stupid reasons. This is a person who would genuinely like to learn How To Disappear Completely.

Cody: Creep speaks to him. It’s also the only Radiohead song he’s ever heard. Pablo Honey.

[orpheusdrinkinga40inadeathbasket]

[album-a-day-project]

1/26/24

The Smile

The Wall Of Eyes

====

The band of Thom Yorke, Jonny Greenwood, and Tom Skinner. I've been waiting a long time for this album as Radiohead is one of my favorite bands and I'm highly critical of anything Thom puts out. Their single "Wall Of Eyes" was released last year that I've been listening to on repeat for a while. It feels like much of the production is leading this with Thom playing backup for many of the tracks. There is also some different musical influences spaced throughout each track from jazz, dream-pop which makes this incredibly easy on the ears. I'll be continuing to listen to this album as you can tell it's very complex; I just wish it moved me a bit more like Radiohead albums do.

8/10

[projectiondepartment]

i kind of have to begrudgingly respect the dare because i think it rocks he just makes songs about wanting to fuck and also kill himself. also i think it's funny like im sorry i dont think he's trying to get me to believe he's a genuine from birth freak pervert i do however think he knows how to make a joke and i will chuckle

[snowcrushkiller]

get lonely is not a break up album compilation

[unopenablebox]

one of life's special consuming yet pointless games is encountering a tumblr user/substack youve never seen before and trying to figure out if it's secretly one of p3yton th0mxs's writing buddies from that knockoff of the toast they ran for a year, or if it's an unrelated person with the same habit of repeating danny lavery bits about 30 rock as broadly known fact who just also loves lists of kind of gayish 90s movies and what we might call "plausible deniability public-facing rpf"

[arson-09]

thinking about the idiot at pitchfork that gave unreal unearth only a 5/10 and then proceeded to write the worst music review/explanation/critique thing i have ever seen in my entire life

and ive been a reader for years, i have read many reviews of differing quality

and that was SO bad

[lulu-spooks]

If I ever need to get real angry I go read pitchforks review of unreal unearth and that riles me up enough to want to punch the sun

[viir-tanadhal]

am i simply cursed to not find a hotspot review that i like

[bees-tea-boys]

bro no fuckin way 😳 actin like life is a big rehearsal???

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Maya was clear that she saw Liam's abuse as a result of distress that ran deep and his coping strategies with that distress. So if I talk about Liam it will be in those terms. ///

In her book she said some of the distress arouse from the contrast between his career and Harry's and the poor reception of LP1. I remember the same Guardian critic Laura Snape was very cruel about LP1 (awful 1* review) and very nice about Fine Line which was released a week later.

I just think the whole solo fandom thing is fucking toxic. The fans, the media, the industry ... all pitting them against each other and the same person coming out on top year after year.

Oh anon - I know fandom is notorious for blaming women for the actions of men - but responding 'Laura Snapes wrote a negative review of Liam's work' in response to a description of Liam's abuse - is taking fucked up fandom to another level.

But far more importantly - the way you present mental distress here You focus on the fact that Liam is being compared to other people and the fact that in this comparison external validation is not being distributed equally. Suggesting that if only external validation was distributed equally - if he got enough of it - Liam would not be experiencing this distress - is a model of mental distress that sets you up for failure.

(And of all the forms of external validation to suggest should be distributed equally - using reviews as your main example is completely absurd. People respond to art in all sorts of ways - which will always be complicated. When you put something out into the world you are taking a huge risk - including that people won't like it. But I'm mostly leaving that alone and are going to pretend to focus on a form of external validation where some form of equity of distribution would be reasonable)

External validation can be nice (although it can also be complicated), but it will not and cannot address the fractures in our psyches. There is all the evidence in the world (including within 1D) that external validation is not a solution to mental distress.

We need some kind of recognition - we need to do things people value and we need to be seen. We don't need, and can't all have, the extraordinary recognition that you describe as Harry coming up on top. Stadium tours, awards, even someone with authority engaging with and appreciating something we've created - those only go to some people - and they never have been distributed fairly and never will be.

Our mental distress lies to us - it sends us in completely the wrong way to try and fix it. Chasing after external validation as a way of trying to eliminate mental distress is a fools errand. Short term distress around rejection, or not getting something we want, or failure - is really normal. Learning to sit with that distress and get through it rather than running in all sorts of directions is a skill that it's possible to strengthen (one of the most important changes of my adult life has been experiencing applying to jobs as something that felt unbearable distressing, to something that was possible, with a significant toll).

Of course Liam experiences some distress at career difficulties - we all would. That's not what his ex-girlfriend wrote a book about. Liam responded to his distress by being cruel and abusive to people around him (particularly his ex) and seeking relief in substances that had a history of making him more abusive - in this condition he chased his girlfriend with an axe.

Our brains are lying to us. It's really common to feel distress and think 'I must do X then I will be valid and not feel distress'. That's a trap that will only keep people on a hamster wheel of distress - chasing relief that will not come. Even if you do achieve X it will not be enough - your brain will give you another goal. I think it can be useful to think of eating disorders here - the idea that being thin enough will cure someone's eating disorder will strike a lot (not enough) people as obviously illogical. The same is true for Liam and success (or Harry and success for that matter) and for so many people in different ways - if we chase things because we feel like we're not good enough - then getting those things are unlikely to make us feel good enough.

There is an alternative (although it is not to listen to that voice, and build our ability to tolerate our distress, manage triggers, and eventually heal some of the wounds that made our distress so strong in the first place.

[adamshallperish]

listen. i love bruce springsteen. i love ethel cain. american teenager is not the new born to run. it is not born to run if it was written by a bi trans woman instead of a cis man. they are two very different songs in terms of sound and tone, and even theme-wise they run parallel to each other rather than down the same road.

a lot of ethel's music draws from/can be compared to a lot of bruce's songs, especially on his nebraska album, but i'm not seeing where people are getting the born to run comparisons from. if anything, american teenager reminds me of born in the usa if it was sung by the narrator's next-door-neighbor, a secondhand account of the suffering springsteen explores in first person in born in the usa.

also like. both of these songs can stand on their own just fine. a thing can be good on it's own without being compared to another thing.