I know this is going to be difficult to hear, but I have to be honest: I saw Taylor Swift’s Eras in Vegas. For free. And I’m not even really like a major Taylor Swift fan (*ducks for cover*).
Don’t get me wrong: the babe writes bops. But I find her, as a human, intolerable. I feel like we all conveniently forget early Taylor who came on the scene so hot and so wrong, she had to take some time to regroup with a PR team before re-emerging with feminism and a carefully selected girl gang in tow. Fine. She was young. Do I want to be judged by the poems I wrote at 22? Absolutely not. So, benefit of the doubt re: maturing responsibly, granted.
But what still irks me is the tiny little thing her PR team failed to course correct during that downtime: her blatant disingenuity.
I was not even 24 hours off a two-week trip to New York when I got the text. “You’re going to Vegas with [JP] to see Taylor Swift.”
While I do genuinely love a plan that’s made for me, I was exhausted. If New York is the city that never sleeps, I was its poster child. New York Jamie was wild—she worked all day and performed comedy all night, she drank 14 nights straight (when at home, it’s barely a glass of wine a month), she didn’t go to bed before 3 am once, and she had “casual” sex (if casual sex requires getting tested beforehand and ongoing contact after). By the time that trip ended, it was lights out/couch time for LA Jamie.
“You’re going to Vegas with [JP] to see Taylor Swift.” This was Wednesday. The show was Friday. From my horizontal cocoon, I realized this was one of those moments that required a rally.
Eras was/is a cultural moment. A must-see, must-experience phenomenon of a concert. An event I would’ve incidentally skipped upon realizing the unconscionable ticket prices did not align with my level of interest. But also one I would be stupid to miss given a free ticket and a road trip with one of my favorite people.
I went from blob life to night in Vegas in 60 seconds flat.
[JP] and I stayed at the hotel connected to the Allegiant Stadium and watched from our window as hordes of eager Swifties headed out early to soak up as much Taylor energy as possible. Vegas shut down all the streets surrounding the stadium, so when we joined the exodus, we had plenty of time and space to stop for selfies. Religious proselytizers yelled as we ambled by, shaming us for worshipping false idols. I giggled at the hyperbole.
Then I stepped inside. Those Righteous Gemstones might have been onto something.
Fans were dressed in Taylor outfits and costumes, lines for merch were two hours (yes, we stood in one), strangers became friends through shared Taylor trivia, even the security guards sang and danced along during the show. JP and I were the oldest people there without kids, and I felt a pang of guilt as we got to our floor seats five rows back from the edge of the stage. Teens cried, dads put their arms around each other and swayed. I still have a visceral reaction to hearing 65,000 people singing “Lover” in unison.
I love concerts; there’s something magical about watching people get lost in their favorite music. But this was something else, fandom at a level I’d never seen in person – multigenerational and zealous. I thought I loved stuff, and now I’m not sure I even know what love is.
Taylor performed for three hours, something a $1200 ticket certainly deserves, but doesn’t demand. Just the fact that by her 30s she has enough music to put on this kind of spectacular speaks volumes. The costuming was incredible, the sets–meticulous. She cannot dance, but my goodness, did she give it her all. I learned that “Our Song”—one of her most famous and popular songs—is one she wrote for her high school talent show.
I watched it, all of it, as an outsider–a detached observer. She didn’t know it, and I’m sure she’d feel deeply invested in it, but she was working to win me over. And she almost did.
But…
Everything she said and did felt put-on. She would link arms with her team of diverse backup dancers as they all looked at each other and giggled. (It looked like stock imagery for a catalogue, not a shared moment between friends.) She sat down at her piano to the joyous and uproarious screams of her followers, pretending to be shocked by their ardor while simultaneously encouraging the stadium to keep cheering – for seven whole minutes. Honestly, I’d rather she just admit she loves the attention than pretend to be taken aback by it; go ahead, get off on it. At least that’s relatable. (To compare, I went to see Jon Bellion at The Greek after having seen him several times in smaller venues. About halfway through the show, he stopped, took in the size of his audience, announced his awe and appreciation, then went back to performing. When I saw Sam Smith live for the first time, they were already filling midsize theaters; my friend and I cried at their success.)
There is a way to be grateful; I just don’t believe her.
And I don’t need to.
TSwift presents herself as a woman of the people, curates a girl-next-door aesthetic, and speaks to valuing her fans. And I would think this would be difficult to continue selling in while making $13 milliona night on tour. It’s excessive. But fans continue throwing money and adulation at her; they take the parasocial at face value, worshipping the person they want to believe she is. I guess it’s similar to how I believe Vanderpump Rules is truly reality.
I recognize I’m obviously in the minority. I can separate the art from the artist, dance to “Bad Blood” when it comes on the radio and scream-sing “Willow” in the shower. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to attend Eras, to be part of this time in our music history, to see firsthand what all the fuss was about. And frankly, I get it. I just don’t buy it.
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