By KAITLYN TIFFANY
Two years ago, shortly after the release of Taylor Swift’s fourth album, Red — a mostly harmless, sickly-satisfying (this time we were looking for you in the cipher, Jake Gyllenhaal!), Joni Mitchell-meets-dubstep collection of well-produced but unimpressive songs — the novelist Rick Moody penned a paragraph that rang truer to me than anything I had been told inside of a church, classroom or Sephora Help Counter: “Taylor Swift represents what makes me want to die about popular music. She makes me want to die … Taylor Swift makes music about as interesting as Olestra-based products, or Swiffers in multiple colors, or tiered Jell-O dessert products, or milk from China that has lead in it, or home cosmetic surgery, or rectal bleaching.” Calm down from that burn for a second.
Courtesy of Big Machine Records