Swift provides Instagram gratification
Taylor Swift, with Charlie XCX, Camila Cabello Rogers Centre, Friday, Aug. 3. (out of 4)
Two old punk rockers walk into a Taylor Swift show …
And the joke? The joke’s on them. They both totally, totally dig it.
Admittedly, this half of the equation was already in on the joke heading into Swift’s Friday night gig at the Rogers Centre, the first of two consecutive, sold-out Toronto touchdowns by her Reputation tour extravaganza — and, oh my, is this thing the very definition of an “extravaganza” — in the 50,000plus-capacity baseball stadium. The amount of airplay “Mine” and “New Romantics” get ’round my apartment when no one’s lookin’ would likely be judged obscene and perhaps even downright disqualifying in most “serious” music-critic circles.
Anyway, my old friend and university-era roommate Rob was in town for a couple of days and, despite having a 7-year-old daughter who slots far closely than my own into the ideal “Swiftie” demographic, professed complete ignorance of the entire Taylor Swift phenomenon. So I took Rob — with whom I first bonded more than 20 years ago over many enthusiastic discussions of the Clash and Sham 69 and Operation Ivy and Slayer catalogues — to see Taylor Swift at the Rogers Centre on Friday night.
Through a series of accidents, too, we wound up standing steps away from the first of two satellite stages set up on the stadium floor — and, apparently, from hometown pop hero Shawn Mendes, too, if subsequent social-media excitement is to be believed — from whence Ms. Swift would arrive from the air by glowing-chariot contraption to treat her fans to an exuberant rendition of “Shake It Off” accompanied by openers Charlie XCX and Camila Cabello and solo-acoustic versions of “Dancing with Our Hands Tied” and “Out of the Woods” at mid-set. We were initially worried we’d be crushed in the rush of youthful Swift admirers to the spot, but they proved a courteous and generally pintsized lot and really not that threatening at all. And, frankly, caught in the midst of that Instagram-mad frenzy, it was pretty hard to maintain any cynicism towards the expertly executed pop spectacle going on around us. Their enthusiasm was contagious. The show is a lot of fun.
That’s what it is, too: a show. Swift’s stadium-tailored Reputation production is arguably more of a theatrical production than it is a concert. Imagine a super-sized version of Phantom of the Opera and a spectacularly lavish drag show rolled into one and you’re getting there. At times it felt like watching TV, so precisely and consistently did Swift — navigating a five-storey-high set veritably swarming with co-ed dancers of every conceivable body type and skin tone and, occasionally, a ceiling-high inflatable cobra or three — hit her marks all evening long just to flash a perfectly timed smile or wink for the big-screen cameras. But as flashy and machine-like and plastic as it was, it was undeniably entertaining. Pop doesn’t get more “pro” than this.
The only complaint would be that we’re expected to take something so inherently silly a bit too seriously for comfort. If you buy into the theme of Reputation, the album, Swift is an embattled artiste constantly beset by tabloid rumours and betrayals and the agony of fame, but it’s rather difficult to accept her as an underdog or a victim when she’s airing such complaints from a multi-million-dollar stage the size of a city block to a 50,000-strong crowd deliriously screaming every single word to “Gorgeous” and “Look What You Made Me Do” and “You Belong with Me” and “Bad Blood” and “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” back at her.
Not that any of those delighted kids or their moms were analyzing it on that level, of course. Nor should they have to. Pop is about pleasure, first and foremost, and the Reputation circus is long on pleasure. A few more moments of humanity such as the aforementioned acoustic interlude or Swift’s genuinely lovely, alone-at-thepiano takes on “Long Live” and Reputation’s sweet album closer “New Year’s Day” towards the end of the evening would have been welcome, however, as they demonstrated that she was more than just another moving part in a precision spectacle so timed to the second that even her appreciative banter with the crowd felt programmatic. Also that she could carry a tune without the aid of a “guide vocal.”
“It sounds different all of a sudden,” observed Rob early on in the acoustic detour.
“That’s because she’s actually singing now,” I replied. And Swift can indeed sing when she’s not dodging trapeze artists and confetti cannons and giant snakes and other distractions that can get in the way of actually singing. But I guess maybe you need trapeze artists and confetti cannons and giant snakes to pull off a show of this size.
Don’t think about it too much. Just give in and enjoy it.