An Eras Tour of Our Own

Remember when we were growing up, how all the guys used to rag on Eric Clapton for writing a love song about George Harrison’s wife? Ugh. Tough to enjoy those guitar licks in “Layla” when it was about Clapton’s dopey, messy love life. And yikes, Bob Dylan, write about Joan Baez much? Or Suze Rotolo much? Or Edie Sedgwick much? Or Sara Lownds much?

Oh, and who can forget how Bruce Springsteen was shunned for “Tunnel of Love” (divorce is so awk) and how Chris de Burgh’s “Lady In Red” tanked because no one cared about his wife’s dumb dress (cringe). “When Doves Cry” written about something other than doves? Unacceptable! 

Okay, of course none of that ever happened. (Also, Prince wrote “If I Was Your Girlfriend” to an actual girlfriend). So why has Taylor Swift, the biggest act of our adult lives — possibly our entire lives — been devalued, dismissed and negged because she… dates? 

That’s just the tip of the double-standard that has been applied to Swift throughout her career and more glaringly so as she has ascended. So much so that when she wondered about it in song, everybody knew why. 

There’s something about this summer. We all knew the Eras tour was happening — fans basically broke Ticketmaster trying to score tickets — and we all knew it was gonna be big. But even though stadiums were sold out and celebs were going nuts and attendance records were being smashed and NFL players were legit kvelling, it feels like only now, as the U.S. leg of the Eras tour was playing its final shows in Los Angeles this week, that Taylor Swift’s status as not just a mega-star and not just a mega-economic force but as a mega-artist is finally being widely appreciated and acknowledged. 

If we take nothing else from this massive summer for women, and for smiting the motherf*ing patriarchy, then let’s take this: We don’t have to put an asterisk on what we do, what we love, and what we achieve. 

The art and the talent is undeniable, yet I feel that Hillary-Clinton-esque-disclaimer urge to prove it. (You know that urge, a relic of 2016, when we pre-parried all blows against Hillary with stats and links and "to-be-sures" acknowledging her deficiencies.) So prove it I shall: There’s the self-accompaniment on both guitar and piano; the marathon 3.5 hour set of 44 songs with not a clunker in the bunch; the fact that thousands of people at each show sing all the words to every song in unison; the fact that she single-handedly brought “tea time” and “best believe” back into the cultural lexicon, and introduced the musicality of “like, ever”; and just, my God, back to back folklore (“august!” “betty!” swearing!) and evermore (“champagne problems!” “willow!” good Lord, “no body, no crime!”) — who does that?; and wait I know there's more but hold on, I just have to scream-sing I’m drunk in the back of the car! and I’m crying like a baby coming home from the bar! which by the way, I now scream-sing with my kid. She’s 8. I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. What was that about a disclaimer?

I’ve been a Taylor Swift fan since 2009, when she hosted SNL as both the musical guest and host, fitting into the ensemble like a utility player and absolutely owning her “Monologue Song” (and living the dream with this moment, before echoing it with a commanding 10-minute “All Too Well” 11 years later). As a lyricist myself, I used to write and perform comedic lyrics to existing songs, and I frequently gravitated to Taylor for her storytelling arcs and generous syllable count. But I disclaimed in a way I never would have for a Springsteen song, scoffing at “the princessy hype” like I hadn’t watched the “You Belong To Me” video on repeat (or displayed my own questionable romantic judgment). And even though I clearly remember sitting on my bedroom floor postpartum, pumping while “Blank Space” gave me life (er, I’m a single mom, is now a good time to mention?), by the time Reputation dropped I was attuned enough to the vibe to give it a pass, to my own detriment and a “Don't Blame Me”-less life until, I am abashed to admit, this very tour. 

Look: I loudly proclaim my Springsteen bona fides. Hell yeah, I went on record with my decades of expertise singing “Thunder Road,” memorized from album liner notes in my basement, to come down on the side of “waves” (for shame, Remnick). But I don’t ever remember feeling weird saying I loved Bruce. 

It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me. Because it still feels vindicating to see Channing Tatum with the sparkly Lover eye-heart and aaaaaall those above-linked NFL players confirming their appreciation. Because even though we all know Taylor Swift writes her own songs, I have actually in the Year of Our Lord 2023 parried claims that she doesn’t (a stubborn conspiracy on sub-Reddits, and the quiet part said out loud by that guy from Blur). Meanwhile Bob Dylan’s out there winning the actual Nobel Prize. Which, yay Bob! I personally do not care that you wrote about Joan, Suze, Edie and Sara (although if I may, you were kind of a jerk on that last one). So, too, should the amorphous bros not care about who Taylor writes about — so, you know, can we just not? 

It’s not lost on me that the success of the Barbie movie ($1 billion!) felt like a prerequisite for  knocking out the naysayers. I love each and every article about what a powerhouse women are this summer — Barbie, Taylor Swift, and of course, Beyoncé — but it still grates that the equation defaults to the sum of all parts, rather than giving Tay or Bey solo credit on par with, say, Christopher Nolan. (I won’t be finding any more links on all this. You know it. I know it.) What was that quote? “Is this how men have always felt?” — what’s that like? —  and still, minus that vestigial remembrance of that asterisk, that disclaimer. 

I’m so sick of that disclaimer. I reject that disclaimer. If we take nothing else from this massive summer for women, for girls, for joy, for community, and for smiting the motherf*ing patriarchy (and boy, does it ever f*ck moms, but I digress) then let’s take this: We don’t have to put an asterisk on what we do, what we love, and what we achieve. 

I turned 50 six months ago and even as a staunch and ardent feminist, it always sucks to realize how much of the patriarchy I have absorbed over my life. But wow, do I feel lucky to be my age and be connecting so deeply with the joy of this moment: the joy of singing in unison, the joy of dressing up, the joy of being bejeweled, the joy of warning someone that they’d best believe it. I feel so grateful to be able to enjoy this so fully— and hell yeah to being 50 and looking cute at a Taylor Swift show! I can still make the whole place shimmer.

Thankfully, this is how the younger generation of Taylor Swift fans already feels, sans disclaimer. My friend, and Taylor superfan, Adriana Fazio wrote about being a Swiftie since she was a kid, about all the times in her life that Taylor’s music has been there for her, saying, “Taylor has provided the soundtrack to my life.” I feel this, too, when I listen to her lyrics, because I have lived variations of those experiences. But now, when I listen to Taylor, I also think of my daughter, the aforementioned 8-year old. Singing along in the MetLife stands, just one cute middle-aged woman of many, by the way, I actually teared up realizing all the heartbreak that waits for her — if she’s lucky, I guess. Right now, her favorite song is “Look What You Made Me Do” (again, stellar parenting over here) but wow am I relieved that she will have all these songs waiting for her to keep her company when she needs them. 

I’m glad I have them, too.