Is Taylor Swift joyful?
Some seem to think so. In a recent article comparing the chanteuse to Bruce Springsteen, columnist Father Raymond de Souza writes:
Swift’s concert extravaganzas are often styled as explosions of joy. The singer herself appears sincerely joyful, and her fans ecstatically so. And therein lies the magic, 40 years ago as now: to sing sad songs in a joyful spirit, to proclaim painful experiences with pulsating exuberance. Sad songs say so much when sung by singers who are not sad. It is a rare gift. Springsteen has it. So does Swift.
Explosions of joy? Sincerely joyful? These disconcerting words played upon my mind as I was cycling around Toronto on a recent Saturday, ending up at the Rogers Centre (always the SkyDome to me) as her fans were lining up for the second of her six sold-out concerts. There were legions of them, almost as far as the eye could see, almost all of them female, mostly young, but some older, many dressed up as their idol. The air palpable with anticipation, quasi-religious, even liturgical, as they all waited and jostled for the queen of pop to appear. What other person on earth, I wondered, could draw such numbers? I prayed for them all as I walked around the circumference of the stadium.
I also wondered about joy, hope, salvation – what would Saint Jean Vianney say of Miss Swift, were she to show up in Ars circa 1850?
We may agree that some of Swift’s songs bring joy, especially her earlier ones, even if of a transient, effervescent, emotional sort. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, even if shelling out several thousand, and traveling as many miles, to experience such seems rather excessive.
But her later songs are not so joyful. On the contrary, they evince the sorrow and tragedy of her own life. How can she be a force for good, and true joy, in her legions of fans?
Here are just a few things to ponder, not to judge, far less to condemn. Rather, they are offered to let readers know something of Taylor Swift, and, in the end, to offer hope.
She was raised Catholic, but abandoned the Faith at some point in her youth, adopting some sort of evangelicalism. I know not what she professes now; she is unashamedly public in her support for every evil woke cause going, from abortion ‘rights’, to LGBTQ+, all the way to radical transgenderism. It should come as no surprise that she also endorsed in no uncertain terms Kamala Harris and the anti-Christian ideology of the Democrats.
Her clothing during her concerts – if it may be called such – is revealing, one might even say meretricious, designed, we may suppose, to provide eye candy to what male fans she has. But more likely this is offer a model to her legions of young female followers, who think, if I dress like that, I’ll get the boys’ attention too – and lots of it. They may get attention, all right, but it won’t be with the right intention.
I will leave the reader to judge the quality of her ‘dancing’, of which I have scant knowledge – pardon the pun. I can only say, as per modern gyrations in general that pass for the ancient rhythmical art of choreography, we’re a long way from Astaire and Rogers.
And her romantic life? Patricia Snow offers a certain apologia for Miss Swift’s inability to marry and settle down. Her argument is complex – more on that in a moment – but one main source of Swift’s sorrow is being let down by her delinquent paramours, the heartbreak of which provides the basis for many of her songs. That said, we do not hear the perspective of the men, who may well be under binding non-disclosure agreements, and nothing of her own possible role in the failure of the doomed relationships. Most of her boyfriends – to use a quaint term – were fellow musicians or actors, generally a pampered and over-feted lot, not given to settling down to idyllic domesticity. Will the current beau, a professional football player, be any different?
And how much does she really regret not having a husband and children? For all we know – whatever the extent of her emotional pain – might some of this apparent angst be used as a promotional ploy to hook her vast impressionable audience? After all, she tweeted her image as a loud and proud ‘childless cat lady’ to J.D. Vance, without any hint of irony.
Swift’s ballads of lament are a long way from the innocent teenyboppers of an earlier era, singing of lost love after holding hands walking around the boulevard. We don’t, and shouldn’t, know the full details of her personal life, but a number of her songs, especially the more recent, are replete with sexual innuendo, with the implication that they go ‘all the way’. Patricia Snow also claims that there is a deep interior battle going on in Swift’s soul, deriving from the stark contrast between the joy promised in the sexual license of feminism – Gloria Steinem’s ‘more sex and better sex’ – and the actual spiritual and emotional sorrow resulting such promiscuity. This is not unconnected to her ‘pro-choice’ stance. As Pope John Paul II wrote, amongst the primary causes of abortion are the trivialization of sexuality and the contraceptive mentality.
All this, and the poor unshriven woman has rejected the very hope that sacramental confession and God’s forgiveness would offer. Her state of her soul is known only to God, but how can anyone in such proximate peril of eternal loss, by any objective standard of Christ’s own warnings, be ‘sincerely joyful’?
The fair beauty of Swift’s youth will pass away. There was a time when she might have chosen the ‘better part’, keeping her childhood Faith, settling down, and raising a passel of beautiful children with a faithful husband. Middle age is on the horizon – she turns 35 this year – her childbearing years coming to a close. Without the make-up, the crow-lines and wrinkles are likely already appearing, even, perhaps, the first wisps of grey hair. I would demur from Father de Souza’s suggestion that she’ll be dancing on stage like Bruce Springsteen as a septuagenarian. Fame is fickle, beauty transient. Nor, likely, will her songs be listened to much in years to come. They will have their day, and so will Swift.
Sic transit gloria mundi.
The only song of hers I will play for our students on our occasional music nights is her early and poignant Love Story, whose words evoke what might have been – but also what may yet be. Her life need not be a tragedy, but a divina commedia, and have a very happy ending indeed.
On that note, I give a talk to visiting prospective students on the liberal arts. Therein I distinguish ignorance – not knowing what we’re supposed to know – from the lesser-used and nearly-forgotten term nescience, not knowing what we need not, or should not know. There is much of which we should be nescient.
As an example, I ask them when is Taylor Swift’s birthday, which almost no one ever knows. I then inquire whether they’re ignorant of that fact. They say yes, but I reply, not so, of that they are nescient: What is it to us, unless you’re her mother or sibling or sometime boyfriend?
But lately, I’ve been thinking, perhaps it’s not such a bad idea to know her birthday. Taylor Alison Swift was born on December 13th, 1989, the feast of Saint Lucy, and baptized soon afterwards. It would be a salutary thing to pray for her to the renowned virgin-martyr, that she may become like a child, and see the Light that will lead her, and untold numbers of her fans to the fullness of truth, and to salvation.
That would be a true love story, and bring much authentic, superabundant joy to many.
We live in hope, for ourselves and for each other, even against hope, not least as we enter this expectant season of Advent, amongst the primary lessons of which is that all things are possible with God – even the birth of God Himself, in time, and in each of our hearts. Of that, let us sing!