Ode to a Missing Apostrophe: Taylor's Brilliant, Tortured Poetry Powers Melancholy Anthology

 

I suspect every English teacher has a grammatical pet peeve (or 50), an error seemingly so basic that we just can't fathom how we continue to see it so frequently. As my students (the ones who mostly stayed awake, anyway) could tell you, mine is excessive apostrophe usage. It bothers me so much that early in my career I dubbed it the "slutty apostrophe" and have continued to use the term for the past couple decades, hoping nobody cancels me for being disrespectful to an item of punctuation.

I'm not sure how many needless apostrophes I've helped to eliminate in my classroom, social media, or during the dreaded Christmas card season, but I've always felt like it's a battle worth fighting. It became enough a part of my identity that when I joined Twitter, one of my former students, a young woman, messaged me: "You HAVE to be @sluttyapostrophe!!!" and a handle was born.

Thus, when Taylor Swift let slip a few months back that her new album was to be called The Tortured Poets Department, well, you could color me perplexed. Taylor is extremely detail-oriented. Nothing she does publicly is an accident. But there's just no good grammatical reason that "Poets" doesn't have a possessive apostrophe. It is the much less common inverse of the slutty apostrophe: the absent apostrophe. 

And then the album came out, and I had more questions besides "why no apostrophe?" Questions like:

Why does Taylor keep letting Jack Antonoff get away with it?

Why release what is essentially a B-sides album a mere two hours after releasing TTPD?

What, exactly, would be the allure of living in the 1830s (minus the racists and dowries)?

I listened to the album a couple times through and fired off a hot take on Facebook about all 31 songs sounding basically the same, smug in my ability to be objective about the only topic I even bother to resuscitate this blog for anymore. I kept listening, though. Particularly to the the first half of the Anthology. And I came to the same conclusion I usually come to whenever I perform any serious self-examination: 

I'm an idiot. 

Taylor always knows what she's doing. I still have no idea why there's no apostrophe on "Poets." But she does, and I'll bet that reason rules, somehow. Because TTPD is amazing (TTPD: The Anthology less so, but we'll get to that later). 

Taylor has been almost comically (intentionally, even?) misguided about picking lead singles from her previous albums, but from the opening strains of "Fortnight," it's clear she nailed this one. No one can make a couplet like "I love you/it's ruining my life" land like she can. Then there's that gorgeous bridge/outro with the first of several Florida getaway references. The first track is already better than anything on Midnights, which is not an album I've returned to much since it came out; whereas, I can see harkening back often to TTPD.

The album sails along with two more songs I've added to my "Best of Taylor Swift" Spotify playlist, the title track and the slightly upbeat (compared to the rest of TTPD, anyway) "My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys," and one that's not bad but just missed the cut, "Down Bad." 

Next comes her now traditionally emotionally turbulent track five: "So Long, London." It's not "All Too Well," because nothing can be "All Too Well," but damn...Jake just nodded to Joe across the bar and offered to buy him a scotch. She sounds more wounded and rueful when she sings about Alwyn than she does angry (she saves the rage for Matty Healy, a person I am only vaguely familiar with), but after comparing the work she did to save their relationship to giving CPR, she gets off the searing "I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free," and that's gotta sting. 

"London" transitions into the soaring "But Daddy I Love Him," which contains one of the few instances of levity on the generally melancholy TTPD, with the cheeky "I'm having his baby/No, I'm not, but you should see your faces." I cannot get past the rare cringy verbiage of "Fresh Out the Slammer;" although, it is amusing for me to wonder how many of her younger fans needed to Google what a "slammer" is, presumably alongside "who is Stevie Nicks?" on "Clara Bow," the latter being a name even my elderly ass only vaguely recognized.

I'm gonna declare "Florida" with Florence + The Machine to be Taylor's best collaboration with a female artist, edging out The Chicks on "Soon You'll Get Better" and Haim on "No Body, No Crime." It seems like she has been reluctant to be upstaged by other women on past tunes, as they haven't been given much to do. But Florence Welch is having none of it; she wails her verse, and their voices collide spectacularly on the bombastic chorus, which is refreshingly jarring on a mostly laid back album.

What follows is a comparatively weaker section of the album, with the mostly unremarkable "Guilty as Sin" (I'll let more passionate Swifties figure out if "One slip and falling back into the hedge maze/Oh what a way to die" is an oblique reference to The Shining), "I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)," and "loml" sandwiching the anthemic highlight "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?" with her iconic response to the chorus' titular question: "Well, you should be." Cue John Mayer, Kanye West, Joe Jonas, etc. nodding in morose agreement. 

The closest thing to a bop on TTPD follows, as Taylor gleefully lilts through lines like "I cry a lot, but I am so productive/It's an art," on "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart," an absolute masterclass in smiling through the pain. This tune has the best post-"Fortnight" chance of being a radio staple imo, although I'm usually wrong about which ones will stick ("Karma" is probably Midnights' biggest hit, for instance; I'm not a fan). 

The Tortured Poets Department climaxes with Taylor unleashing her scorn for Healy (allegedly) on "The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived." Its structure is similar to Billie Eilish's magnificent "Happier Than Ever," and I mean that as the highest compliment. It's hard to choose the sharpest barb, but I'll go with "Were you writing a book?/Were you a sleeper cell spy?/In 50 years will this all be declassified?"

I would've made that the record's epic closing track, but she follows up with "The Alchemy," which is one of the better tracks musically, but I can't get over all the clunky football references ("I touch down/call the amateurs/and cut 'em from the team"), presumably in reference to current beau Travis Kelce. The aforementioned "Clara Bow" (she was a silent film actress; yes, I had to look it up) closes out the non-Anthology edition. 

Another thing I would've done: Just chosen the best 12-15 songs I had and made that the whole of TTPD. That's exactly what nearly every artist would've done. Two things, though: 1. As we've established, I'm an idiot. 2. Nobody else is Taylor Swift. She has earned the right to do pretty much whatever she wants.

Even though I've taken to referring to the second half of the Anthology as "the B-sides," there's some genuinely good stuff here (and unlike on Reputation, for instance, no actively bad tunes). "Black Dog" is a nice start to the second half; "imgonnagetyouback" is a clever ode to the love/hate nature of tumultuous relationships.

However, then the songs largely begin to blur together, sonically. There are exceptions, such as the Liz Phair-lite playful fun of "So High School" ("Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto" lol). Whatever you think of holding a grudge going on the better part of a decade, Taylor absolutely eviscerates Kim Kardashian on "thanK you aIMee." Burns don't get much sicker than "Everyone knows my mother is a saintly woman/But she used to say she wished that you were dead." I find myself singing "You said you were gonna grow up/And you were gonna come find me" from "Peter," the ode to childhood nostalgia. "The Bolter" stands out as rythmically distinct from the rest of the tracks, which are mostly slow-to-mid tempo quiet tunes backed by either a soft acoustic guitar or delicate piano tinkling.

It's pretty silly to quibble with a bounty of songs that are sonically similar, even a bit snoozy at times, when you have songwriting of this magnitude to marvel at. It's become a bit easy to take Taylor for granted because of her prolific output. I always tell my classes when we read a particularly brilliant line from a classic (particularly Gatsby; your boy F. Scott Fitz could write, trust) that if I could come up with a single line as good as that, I'd be a writer, not an instructor of writing. Every time I listen to one of Taylor's tunes, even those I don't find that interesting musically, I'm amazed anew at what a master of the craft she is. As she matures she's only gotten sharper, which means her career is going to age a lot better than her peers who rely on their looks and/or spectacle to draw crowds. 

I still would love to see her move on from Antonoff. The first few times through the album all I could focus on were his signature clicks, beeps, and boops. The chimes, synths, and loops. It feels like her songwriting is overcoming his musical production instead of being enhanced by it, but you know what? If you guessed "you're an idiot?" again, then we have a winner. The album works. Maybe Antonoff is the secret sauce.

I'm not a talented enough musician to make a cogent argument about what should be different. Ok, that's not quite accurate; I'm not a musician at all. Still, they let me review album releases and concerts in college, and I got 40 cents per inch of copy, so yes, you are reading the opinion of a an actual (former) professional critic. A poet, however, I am certainly not. Taylor keeps proving she's got that department covered.

The Tortured Poets Department: A-

The Tortured Poets Department (B-sides): C+

The Tortured Poets Department: The Anthology: B

Midnights: C+ (revised grade)

Evermore: B- (revised grade)

Folklore: B (revised grade)

Lover: A-

Reputation: C-

1989: B

Red: A

Speak Now: A-

Fearless: B+

Taylor Swift: Idk, I don't like country, never listened to it

The End of an "Era": Our Last-Minute Trek to See Taylor

The first time I, then a 33-year-old man, publicly declared my love for the music of the then 20-year-Taylor Swift was via a Facebook status update on January 21, 2010 that read: "(The) radio station inside my head only plays Taylor Swift. If I die, I very well may be reincarnated as a 12-year-old girl." 

There I was, on the record as being enchanted, over a decade ago. Thus, when the announcement about the massive "Eras" tour came out, I just naturally assumed I'd be one of the lucky ones to score tickets. I was the man. I dutifully signed in at the right time and requested to be a verified ticket buyer. But as I'm sure many of you experienced, the process was more treacherous than I had anticipated. No code was forthcoming. I didn't even have the opportunity to get screwed by Ticketmaster on the day tickets dropped. 

With the universe basically telling me "you're on your own, kid," I had to mastermind a new plan to avoid a cruel Taylor-less summer. Before I go further, let me acknowledge I live an incredibly privileged existence. There are surely legions of deserving Swifties who couldn't even afford the tickets at face value. No one should feel sorry for me. These are absolutely champagne problems. That said, we're all the heroes of the story of us, so I figured I'd use my privilege to be able to afford tickets for more than face value. I scoured the secondary ticket markets for months, going all the way back to December. To my dismay, my level of privilege wasn't near to being enough to snag even the cheapest of tickets (which were going for around $1,300 to sit BEHIND THE STAGE). Refreshing those sites daily was like death by a thousand cuts. 

This clearly would require a fearless level of dedication. I had a slight advantage: My sister lives about three miles from Levi's. I figured the fam would head over to her place on one of the nights and just wait out the resale market. We could show up in the parking lot, even missing the opening acts, but someone would get desperate enough to unload three tickets for something not ridiculous. If it didn't happen, we could just come back and be here at my sister's for a family sleepover.

Then I heard from a friend on the East Coast (she used to live here but her family moved far away, so now we may never, ever, ever all get back together again) who tried exactly that. She texted me "I legit felt like I was 'meant' to go and tickets would fall on me, somehow. Didn't happen." Like me, she felt destined to get tix. It didn't happen. I was no longer innocent nor in a state of grace. 

I gave up. I resigned myself to non-attendance. I pouted and refused to read any reviews of the shows or even check out the set list. I posted a half-sincere status letting everyone know that barring a miracle I wouldn't be attending and that I was resentful of those who were. One of my friends offered to listen to my six-hour Taylor mix and wallow in our sorrows. I took him up on it. I was sitting in his hot tub in Martinez (about 15 minutes from my house) on perhaps my fourth beer of the day, watching the Giants game when my phone buzzed. My wildest dreams had come true. The miracle had arrived. What follows is a running diary of what happened next, along with my thoughts about the show (all times approximate):

Saturday, July 29, 4:23 pm:

My friend Gus, who had commented on my earlier post that he was going to the show Saturday (I told him to slip on a banana peel) messages me that he might have a couple tickets at near to face value. One of his daughters got sick that afternoon, and he needed to stay home with her. I actually initially balk. I just can't envision a transition that would get me from hot tub to Santa Clara in time for the show. And he only has two tickets. I know my wife and daughter would want to come. I tell him to put the tix on Stub Hub and make a few thousand dollars (tix in this 300 section were going for over $2,000). 

But then I start thinking...am I crazy to turn this down? Eileen has to fly out to New York for work early in the morning, so there's no realistic way she is going to be able to go. That leaves Rory, whom I took to Olivia Rodrigo last year in what was one of the best nights of either of our lives. She's a huge Swiftie; she plinks out Taylor tunes on the piano from a book we got her. If I could do this with her, for roughly what we paid to see Olivia, then it's worth working out a hasty plan to get to Levi's (over an hour away; the show starts at 6:30). I call Gus and ask what he wants for the tix (it's too late to put them on Stub Hub, so his wife is going to see what she can get for them in the parking lot). He offers them to me for $500 each; I accept. I call Eileen and tell her to inform Rory we're going. I hear her screaming in the background when she gets the news. She needs to calm down.

4:44 pm:

I simultaneously towel off and order an Uber to take me to my home, as I don't have my car. I also call my sister, as I figure the show will end late, and with no idea how we'll get home, we'll need a place close by to stay, stay, stay. 

My Uber driver Anatoly picks me up. He is Ukranian and has the thick accent to match. I ask him if he'd be willing wait outside my house while I change and then take us to Levi's. He says yes, if we "Leave Uber out of it." I like this guy's style. I look up the cost of the trip from my house to the show. It says $65. I offer to give him $60. He's down. Problem one solved.

5:02 pm:

I arrive at my house. Rory is wearing a dress and beaming and hopping up and down. I have no idea what to wear. I put on some thin, stretchy sweat pants, thinking jeans might be too hot but shorts too cold. I put on a Warriors-related t-shirt, slap a Niners hat on my chlorinated hair, and tie a light jacket around my waist. I figure I will be the worst-dressed person at this concert. I am not wrong. 

5:08-6:28 pm:

I learn many things about Anatoly, who now, freed from the harness of Uber decorum, talks nonstop. He left the Soviet Union in 1996 after being in the military. I will myself not to make Red Dawn and Hunt for Red October references. He misses the Soviet Union and wishes it never broke up. He thinks we need Trump back as president because he could stop the war. His opinions often contradict each other. He ends most statements with "But thaaat is may opeeeenyon onlay." Rory keeps looking at me with a confused "Is this guy insane?" expression. I try my best to give her a smile that says "Yes, he is, but I already paid him, and we need him, so I'm just gonna keep saying 'right' and 'that's interesting' until we get there." He tells me to call when the show is over, and if he's around he'll take us back home (he lives in Concord). I am not sure how desperate I'd have to be to do that, but I guess we'll find out. 

6:29 pm:

Anatoly drops us off in front of the stadium. As we head across the parking lot toward the venue, we can hear Gracie Abrams start to play. As I am only vaguely aware who Gracie Abrams is, I am not too disappointed to be missing her. I'm just relieved we made it on time and trying not to think about how we're gonna get out of here. There are big crowds of people outside the venue, either tailgating, trying to score last-minute tix, or both. There but for the grace of God go I, I think as we enter the venue. 

6:57 pm:

We arrive at our seats after passing perhaps the longest lines at a concert venue I've ever seen. The one for merch is so long that I can't see where it ends. The lines for food spill into the concourse. The only stands with no lines are those that exclusively sell beer. I take that as a sign and grab one. I tell Rory I hope she's not hungry anytime soon. She says she's too excited to be hungry, which is good because all the food I'll be able to access for a while is the fruit roll-up I smuggled in my pocket. When things get crowded, she grabs my hand and holds on, which is bliss.

Rory is going to hit middle school in a couple weeks. She's started calling me "Dad" instead of "Daddy" in front of her friends. She won't let me hug her or give her "cuds and ticks" as much and rarely allows me to carry her up to bed anymore.  But she still needs to hold her Daddy's hand when there's a big crowd and she might get lost, and I remind myself to treasure that while I can. 

7:00-7:30 pm:

Haim plays. They're fine. I spend most of the time trying to decide which one was in that Paul Thomas Anderson movie. They mostly seem a bit insignificant on this giant stage that runs basically the entire length of the football field. Taylor must have something pretty special planned. 

7:58 pm:

She does.

The countdown hits zero, the clock strikes midnight, and whatever this is starts happening:

The fan people move to the center of the stage, surrounding a platform that rises and falls all night, and the woman of the (midnight) hour emerges:

8:00-8:23 pm (Lover):

She starts with a shortened version of "Miss Americana," but honestly it's hard to care about the opening tune as we just try to acclimate to the spectacle and noise and energy. It's a decent enough song, but when she follows it up with "Cruel Summer," probably Lover's best bop, it feels like the party has truly begun.

She burns through six tunes from the album, none of which is "Cornelia Street" but hey, I'm not gonna get all my favorites, and ends with an extended outro to "The Archer," with moving arrows projected all over the massive stage, as Taylor disappears for a costume change. It would not be the last.  

8:27-8:38 pm (Fearless):

This short three-song segment features the stage lit up as a sparkly acoustic guitar...

and ends with the two best pop songs a 16-year-old ever wrote: "You Belong With Me" and "Love Story." I look over at Rory during the choruses to make sure she's loving this as much as I am at the "and you know it's with meeeeeee" part. She's doing alright:

8:45-9:12 pm (Evermore):

The high of pure pop bliss transitions into the quarantine couture of Evermore, a record not without its charms but certainly less fit for an arena setting. "Willow" inspires a stadium full of cell phone lights, set to some gorgeous stage visuals:

 

I choose the end of this set to make my first visit to the facilities because my bladder can no longer tolerate it. There are lines for the stalls, but the urinals are all clear. As I finish up I notice that the wait for the stalls is long because there are women waiting in them. There are women next to me as I wash my hands. I am suddenly terrified that I just used the wrong bathroom. I hustle out and look up at the sign over the door despite the fact that I just used a urinal. Kudos to all those ladies who put up with having to be around men as they shake it off (I'm so so sorry) to avoid the massive lines for the women's restroom. 

The food lines have died down, so I grab some chicken fingers and fries, a water for Rory, and (you guessed it) another beer for me. I make it back for the start of the next bunch of songs, which happen to be from my least favorite Taylor record...

9:15-9:26 pm (Reputation):

Here's the thing: "...Ready for It?" is not a very good song. However, it's a pretty darn good concert song, if that makes sense:

Ditto "Look What You Made Me Do," which...I mean...look at this:

Here's where I need to pause and stress that not only did Taylor change costumes and looks for every "era," every single song had its own effects (lighting, pyro, backup dancers, movable platforms, etc.). She was absolutely determined to make sure everyone got their money's worth, and I doubt anyone left feeling ripped off, regardless of what they paid (although for what some people paid, they could've purchased a small yacht). 

9:30-9:35 pm (Speak Now):

Just a shortened version of "Enchanted" (including the fantastic bridge: "PLEASE. DON'T. BE IN LOVE. WITH. SOME. ONE. ELLLLLSE") followed by "Long Live," which is a song I treasure so much that I closed a commencement address to the College Park class of 2020 with some of its lyrics. Check out Taylor's purple prom dress:

9:39-9:58 (Red):

This is it. This right here. Four absolute bangers from her best album. "22" with the iconic t-shirt/top hat combo, followed by the first Gyllenhaal slander song ("WANEEGBT"). Earlier in the night, she mentioned that Santa Clara had made her the honorary mayor for the weekend. During "I Knew You Were Trouble," the end-of-night fireworks from next-door Great America start going off behind the stage:

At the conclusion of the tune, sporting a sly smile, Taylor quips: "You know why they did that, right?" She pauses with commendable comedic timing and delivers the punchline, "Cuz I'm the mayor." 

Does she close with the ten-minute version of "All Too Well?" Friends, you know she does. It is everything I am hoping for. She has broken me like a promise, and I am elated. What a way to close a show. Money well spent, priceless memories made with Rory. Whew.

I look down at the set list from last night I have hastily googled. My jaw opens and hangs there. Taylor has already performed 24 songs.

Out of 45. 

10:01-10:20 pm (Folklore):

You may notice a lack of photos for the rest of this blog. That's because at this point I start worrying about how Rory and I are going to get to my sister's house (possibly to leave a scarf in a drawer). This section has the same snoozy quality as Evermore; although, the songs are beautiful, particularly "August," and it appears that they have somehow wheeled out an entire two-story cottage onto the stage for Taylor to croon from. Everyone has been standing for the two hours since the show started, but lots of people take these tunes as an opportunity to sit down for a few minutes, including not one but both of us. 

10:23-10:34 pm (1989):

Taylor quickly gets us all back on our feet with a blistering run of hits from her first pure pop album, blasting through "Style," "Blank Space," "Shake it Off," and then shortened versions of "Wildest Dreams" and "Bad Blood." I have no idea where she's getting the energy from. I am exhausted (which is my fault for starting to drink beer at 1:30- I'm the problem; it's me). At this point I open the Uber app, Google "where to pick up ride share from Levi's stadium" and begin to have a low-level anxiety attack as I mentally compete with the 68,000 other people here who all surely have arrived here with a better plan than I have.

10:38-10:45 pm ("Surprise Songs"):

We get "Stay Stay Stay," which of course I know and something called "All of the Girls You've Loved Before," which I do not and am too lazy to look up. I open up the Google map on my phone to determine how long it would take to WALK to my sister's: over an hour. Ugh. Not an option, unless things are really dire. 

10:48-11:15 pm (Midnights):

I show Rory the remaining set list and ask her which songs she doesn't want to miss. She points to "Anti-Hero," the second ditty in this final leg. Ok, then. It's going to take us at least five minutes to exit the stadium from our perch in the 300 section. We get up from our seats. I don't want to leave early, but I also don't want to be stuck at Levi's for the rest of the night. We make our way down to the concourse and watch the end of "Bejeweled." Two songs left ("Mastermind" and "Karma," which is one of my least favorite hit songs of hers). It's time to go. 

I head toward the sign directing me toward the ride share pickup, which is somewhere known as "Lot 7." I don't know where it is, but it's gotta be close, right?  I order the Uber. 

11:19 pm:

The Uber driver calls me. He's in Lot 7 and wants to know where we are. I tell him we're making our way across the stadium parking lot and following the signs. He sounds despondent: "You're still in the parking lot?" For the first time, I pull up where, exactly, Lot 7 is.

It's literally a mile from the stadium. 

I plead with the driver not to leave and tell Rory she needs to move her little legs. Behind us, fireworks pop and explode. Taylor's sending us off. 

11:25 pm:

He calls again to check our progress. I tell him we're really close, panting. 

I am lying. I tell myself it's for my daughter's well-being, so it's fine. 

11:29 pm: 

The driver calls to inform us that Lot 7 was getting unworkable, so he has pulled out and is waiting on the side of the road with his flashers on. As I pull Rory down the road, huffing and puffing, Lot 7 appears in view. It looks like a hornet's nest that's been stirred up. Farther down the road, I see a solitary Toyota Camry, hazard lights going. If there is such a thing as karma, this guy deserves to have nice things for driving the getaway car for us. 

11:32 pm:

We tumble into the back seat. We've made it. I couldn't be more proud of Rory, who hasn't complained once, though I know she's tired. She leans against my shoulder and says, "Thanks for taking me, Daddy. I had a great time." Does she get points off for not saying "I had the 'best day' with you"? Obviously. But still, that's pretty sweet. We've created a core memory together. 

11:46 pm: 

We arrive at my sister's building and climb the three stories to her condo. I find Rory one of my brother-in-law's t-shirts to sleep in and tuck her into the guest bed, which is adorned with a few of my sister's old stuffed animals. She asks me to leave the door open halfway, so the light can come in. Middle school, puberty, boys, drama, arguments over clothes and makeup...that's all coming. It's the end of an era. But not tonight. Tonight she's still my little girl. 

12:02 pm:

Today was a fairy tale. 

 

How Frequent Flyers Are Getting F@#%ed

 

Air travel sucks. 

We all know and accept this. From the second I settle into my seat, all I can think about is when I can get off this plane. I'm not afraid of flying or anything like that. I just hate it. Trapped in a confined metal tube, squishing my tall frame into a cramped space, trying to decide if ordering a drink is worth it because then I'll have to either rub my butt or my crotch against two sleeping people when I have to go to the lav...it all sucks. 

Oh, and it's somehow getting worse? That legroom keeps getting shorter, so the airlines can cram more sardines into the can. We have to pay extra to bring a suitcase with us now? And for the food? Wait, there's no real food on this flight sustain life on this tiny bag of pretzels. 

Ticket prices keep going up, even as the airlines are reporting record profits. Yet, we customers put up with it. Why? Because it's by far the safest, fastest, and most efficient way to travel long distances. Duh. We need the airlines as much as they need us. They know this and treat us accordingly. 

Despite all this there are actually people who love to fly. So much so, they make it their profession. They work a job that is somehow equal parts chaos and drudgery so that you can get where you need to go.

You probably don't think about flight attendants that much. If you do, you likely picture Britney up there, being "Toxic."

 Or maybe's it's Leo:

Pop culture makes being an FA look glamorous, but the reality is anything but. When people find out I'm a teacher, they have a basic understanding of what I do. People generally think the most important thing FAs do is pour coke. However, FAs are an integral part of air travel. They're highly trained and required by law. Without them, none of us fly.

And they are getting completely and totally ripped the fuck off. 

So you know how terrible it is when you show up at the airport, all charged up to go on vacation/visit family/head home, and you look up and see the second-biggest airport curse word: "DELAYED" (only "CANCELLED" rates higher)? Your day has been ruined. You showed up on time, checked your bags, waited in the security line...you did everything right. And now the airline hasn't held up its end the bargain, and you're stuck in an airport, which isn't quite a circle of hell, but it's in the suburb adjacent. You are so pissed/dejected, and you're at the mercy of the airline. 

Well, flight attendants experience all that too. Yeah, you may be saying, but that's their job. That's what they get paid for. 

Here's the thing, though: They don't. 

You know how when most other hourly employees show up at their job, dressed in their uniforms, they get paid from the time they start work? That's not true for FAs. The amount of time FAs work without pay is criminal. I mean that word literally. The amount of wage theft FAs endure should be against the law; I have no idea how it doesn't violate several labor standards. Apparently it has something to do with the Railway Labor Act of 1926. Seems fair.

FAs don't start earning their hourly wage when they arrive at the airport parking lot. They don't get it when the shuttle drops them off at the terminal. They don't get paid starting at their required "report time," typically an hour before scheduled takeoff. During this unpaid time, they are doing required safety checks of all medical supplies, door checks, and aircraft safety checks. They also do galley stocking/inspections, talk with the pilots about the required flight plan, gate agents about boarding times, ramp agents about bags). All of that sounds a helluva lot like "work" to me. 

The first time you probably notice the flight attendants is when you are boarding the plane. There they are, on the actual plane, making announcements, helping people find their seats, settling disputes between passengers. This is clearly an integral part of their job, right? Obviously they're being paid for this, yes?

No. Flight attendants are only paid for actual flight time. That's it. I'm telling you, it's criminal. 

Think of it this way: Your flight is delayed two hours. Maybe you go to a restaurant or a bar. Maybe you buy a book. Maybe you play on your phone. But you hang in there because you still want to get to your destination. But to a flight attendant, the destination is immaterial. They're there to do their job, and they only get paid when the plane is in the air. Two hours' delay is just two more hours at work without being compensated for their time. 

Oh, and you know how when your flight gets cancelled, you now have to get on hold with the airline and wait for them to figure out how to get you where you're going? FAs have to deal with that exact same thing with crew scheduling, where they can be on hold for hours at a time. Except the flight attendants weren't going anywhere special to them in the first place. The flying was the whole point. So now they're holding on the phone, trying to figure out where to head to next, and not being paid a cent for any of it. 

You know that excruciating time after the plane touches down and arrives at the gate, and you have to watch everyone in front of you gather their belongings in slow motion, and all you want to do is GET OFF THIS GODDAMN PLANE? The FAs are right there with you, only they have to smile and say goodbye and waive and pretend to be happy even while they are, say it with me now, NOT GETTING PAID FOR THIS SHIT. 

Then there's the "all they do is pour coke" thing. Flight attendants must travel to and undergo a six-and-a-half week training program where they learn actual life-and-death aviation procedures and stuff they have to promise not to reveal to avoid the threat of imprisonment, like what to do in case of a terrorist incident. They work 8-10 hour days, 6 days a week. They get a hotel room and $20 a day for food. Do they get paid for this training? If you've read this far, I think you know the answer to that. Oh, and then there quarterly trainings that last 4-6 hours. They get paid for one. Every 18 months there is a 10-hour training. They are paid for three, which somehow is more demeaning than none. 

Once they complete the training, the reward is to work for roughly $30 an hour.* But not before they are forced to PURCHASE THEIR OWN UNIFORMS, the cost of which is slowly bled from their paychecks over the next two years for an average of about $2,000. They sound high quality! Except that they frequently rip and break, particularly the zippers, and then the FAs have to buy replacements at hundreds of dollars a pop. Glamorous!

Wait, there's more! A Harvard study found that FAs are at higher risk for cancer, in particular breast, respiratory issues, and all-cause mortality. But if they call in sick too often due to these issues, they get fired. 

If you got this far, you might wonder why anyone would stay in this profession. Here's the thing: We NEED them to stay. Constant turnover isn't just bad for employees, it's bad for passengers, too. Recently, a glimmer of hope emerged:

This only happened because Delta's FAs threatened to unionize. The airlines WILL respond to pressure, so we need to support FAs and their unions. 

People need to realize what flight attendants go through. Five or six days a week, they deal with the travails of air travel, which most of us take on as seldom as possible. Their whole job is the thing I dread and avoid when possible.

Shouldn't they at least get paid for doing it? 

*Everything cited here is true for one of the major airlines (not Spirit, a real airline). FA pay varies, especially dependent on whether it's mainline (like Delta), or regional (Skywest), who make less and are highly exploited. 

Soothing, Well-Crafted "Midnights" Not Quite Mid*, But Clock is Ticking

*mid: teenager-speak for "mediocre at best"

    From those first pulsating electronic thumps on "Lavender Haze," the mellow opener, Midnights tells you more or less exactly what it's going to be: a Jack Antonoff-produced, slick, buzzy record. Which is (Mr.) perfectly fine. But anyone hoping that Taylor Swift would emerge from quarantine armed with a quiver full of joyous bangers is in for a letdown. 

    I've made no secret of my disdain for most of 2017's petulant Reputation, and initially all the digital beeps, boops, and drum loops were giving me Reputation-lite vibes. Thankfully, it's not that, and repeated listens have grown on me. It's a pleasurable way to spend 45 minutes (or 70 if you take on the "3 a.m." version*), with zero filler or clunkers, the possible exceptions being the duo of "Karma," which is sillier than the rest of the album, and "Sweet Nothing," which is just sorta...there. 

    As for those patented Taylor anthems that are destined to be classics played on radio loops evermore, there are only two real possibilities here: the wistful, bouncy "You're on Your Own, Kid" and the self-deprecating "Anti-Hero," with its earworm chorus of "It's me/Hi/I'm the problem/It's me." Those are surefire add-to-Taylor-mix tunes; there might be two or three others. The moody "Maroon" qualifies, as does the album's closer "Mastermind," which would've sounded right at home next to "Archer" on 2019's Lover. Ditto "Question...?," which could've been lifted from Taylor's poppiest album, 2014's 1989. 

    "Vigilante Shit" most clearly revives the petty spirit of Reputation, but even the snarky bravado of a line like "I don't start shit/but I can tell you how it ends" seems delivered with an arch smile rather than a snarling sneer. Taylor sounds relentlessly content on Midnights, both sonically and lyrically.

    Therein, perhaps, lies the rub. 

    Taylor has released three original albums in the past couple years. Folklore and Evermore were well-received pandemic-era comfort food, but the biggest song off those two albums is probably "Willow," which nobody's going to use either as breakup catharsis or the first dance at their wedding. The lasting impact of Midnights remains to be seen, but I'm wagering that nothing's going to come near to cracking the monoculture as 2021's "All Too Well (10-Minute Version)," which harkened back to 2012 Taylor, who was, to be honest, kind of a hot mess. Poor Jake Gyllenhaal was out here catching strays almost a decade later, and it was completely goddamned delightful for everyone (except Jake, I'm guessing). 

    It's not my nature to destroy someone's hard-won maturity and stability by, let's say, implicating Taylor's current British beau Joe Alwyn in a good ol' fashioned sex and drugs scandal, so it will have to be up to one of you (perhaps we can crowd fund one)? In all seriousness, the easiest fix is parting ways with Antonoff, or at least significantly ratcheting down his involvement. The two obviously have an exceedingly high level of comfort with one another, and perhaps that's what's holding back the steady-but-unspectacular Midnights. 

    Taylor is at her best when confronting her pathos and pain, and despite the album's title referring to the end of a day's cycle, it sure feels like Midnights falls squarely in the middle: not angry, not forlorn, not ecstatic, just mid.

*None of the seven "3 a.m." songs are worth saying much about. The best are "Paris" and "Would've, Could've, Should've." The only legitimately bad song out of the record's score of tunes is "Glitch." 

Midnights: B-    

Evermore: B

Folklore: B+ 

Lover: A- 

Reputation: C- 

1989: B 

Red: A 

Speak Now: A- 

Fearless: B+ 

Taylor Swift: Idk. I don't like country, never listened to it

    

It's a Taylor Two-fer: "Evermore" Expands Quarantine Cottage Couture

 

Buzz Aldrin. That's what kept coming to mind when I was trying to characterize this album. Sure, the dude's famous, but he'll always be known as the second man to walk on the moon. Not that making a mellow folk album and releasing it with less than 24 hours' notice is equivalent to walking on the moon, but you catch my drift. 

Evermore is a sonic extension of Folklore, plus a drum loop or two. I don't have a ton to say about it. Folklore's ceiling is higher; there are more songs I genuinely love. Evermore is probably more solid throughout. The two albums are destined to be forever intertwined. 

The world should be unerringly grateful for Taylor's contribution to this accursed year, but 31 songs of cottage couture in six months is a lot. Still, if this had been released next year sometime, I'd doubtlessly be disappointed that it sounded so similar to her previous effort. Releasing it as a sister album was the right choice, but it dampens the impact a bit. 

My favorite song on the record is "Champagne Problems," largely because it sounds like a demo version of "All Too Well." What a gift to the culture "No Body, No Crime" is, with its stellar refrain: "I think he did it/But I just can't prove it." I will take solace in that phrase every time I'm 99% sure a student cheated, but I don't have a smoking gun. I'd definitely be interested in future HAIM collaborations. The title track featuring Bon Iver doesn't quite match the highs of Folklore's "Exile," but it's an outstanding closer. 

Critics are gushing over Taylor's ode to her opera-singing grandmother, "Marjorie," but I prefer the more lively "Dorthea" as far as song titles featuring women's first names go. "I come back stronger than a '90s trend" on the album's opener, "Willow," is the most clever turn of phrase. That's probably the extent of tracks that I'll be adding to my "Essential Taylor" mix, but as I noted, it's not like the album is full of filler. 

If Evermore were released before Folklore, it's quite possible I'd have the former graded higher. And if Buzz Aldrin walked the moon before Neil Armstrong, he'd be the household name. As it is, I dug Evermore slightly less than Folklore. As much as I've enjoyed this phase, I'm anxious for Taylor to go back to mixing in some snappy pop songs, in the same way that I'm anxious to go back to eating in restaurants and watching football at friends' houses. Quarantine cottage couture has its limits.

Evermore: B

Folklore: B+ 

Lover: A- 

Reputation: C- 

1989: B 

Red: A 

Speak Now: A- 

Fearless: B+ 

Taylor Swift: Idk. I don't like country, never listened to it

Taylor Flexes Maturity, Staying Power to Deliver Moody "Folklore"

On Thursday, July 23, 2020, in the midst of a global pandemic that had the world stuck mostly indoors for the past four months, Taylor Swift changed the game. At least, she changed her game.

Eschewing the single/video release buildup that she and countless other musical acts have typically used to launch albums, she announced that she had something "to put out in the world" and wanted to do so right away. Like, that night.

The lack of pre-album hoopla fits Folklore's quiet, melancholy tone like a warm mitten, which is the sort of accessory this album evokes. Although it was released in the dog days of July, this collection of tunes is best-listened to while curling up with a book you don't have to think too hard about next to a warm fire. It is not a summery pop album like her last effort, 2019's Lover. It's the first album she's released in her 30's and bears all the hallmarks of maturity and growth that one would expect from a preternatural talent.

Before we go on, one more time, for people in the back: Taylor Swift is her generation's premier songwriter. Yes, she has become a pop star, but what separates her from the pack is how personal her music feels because she writes it. The best (and most authentic) parts of Miss Americana, the Netflix documentary about the writing of Lover and her newfound political activism show her actual genius at work.

It's not hard to imagine the follow up doc of Taylor, pent up during quarantine in her mansion with her cats, firing off classic Taylor laments like "When you are young/they think you know nothing" on "Cardigan" or "I'm only 17/I don't know anything/But I know I miss you" on the album's catchiest tune, "Betty." While those lyrics might've been at home on, say Speak Now, there's an added edge this time around. She wonders on "Betty" if the titular character would tell her "to go fuck myself." There's also a harmonica part, as she goes for that Bob Dylan in the coffee shop vibe.

Departing from pop is also going to ask for growth on the part of her audience. As a parent, I admit I was a bit shocked and dismayed by the few F-bombs she drops because they're not appropriate for my eight-year-old daughter, who is a big fan. Rory's capsule review (of the songs we allowed her to hear) was that the album "is all sad songs."

Additionally, Taylor is really leaning into the alcohol-soaked references she first began on Reputation. Those notes struck me as false then, but she's been pretty consistent about her relationship with booze since, crooning "They told me all of my cages were mental/So I got wasted/Just like my potential" on "This is Me Trying." On one of the album's highlights, "August," she claims that month "sipped away like a bottle of wine," which is a tortured simile, but it's a lovely tune.

Another standout includes the call-and-response duet "Exile," in which Bon Iver insists that Taylor "Never gave a warning sign," to which she protests "I gave so many signs." There's also a "Got lots of Starbucks lovers" potential to the wistful "Mirrorball," in that every time she sings "You'll find me on my tallest..." I think she's about to admit "You'll find me on my toilet" because of the way she pronounces the first part of "tallest." That could totally just be me, though.


The album's best song represents another departure of sorts, as Taylor details the fascinating life story of wealthy Rhode Island widow Rebekah Hastings, who ruined "The Last Great American Dynasty" through her antics of filling the swimming pool with champagne and coloring the neighbor's dog key-lime green. Taylor has rarely, if ever, written in the persona of another, and she does return to her roots at the end of the song by delightedly informing us that she is now the proud owner of Rebekah's mansion.

There are no stinkers on Folklore, but there are a few that merge together and float off into the ether. I'd qualify "My Tears Ricochet," "Seven," and "Peace" as merely "fine, I guess." Her political awakening continues on the scathing "Mad Woman," which is a lot sharper lyrically ("And women like hunting witches too/Doin' your dirtiest work for you/it's obvious that wanting me dead/Has really brought you together") than Lover's "The Man," but it's not nearly as fun to listen to.

Taylor has expressed admiration for old folkies like Joan Baez, even inviting her out on stage to a massive stadium show where approximately 80% of the crowd had no idea who she was. It feels like Taylor could write this type of music until she's Baez's age. Maybe five or six songs off this album will crack my "Best of Taylor Swift" mega mix, and none of these tunes are going to be radio staples like "Shake it Off," but they'll be more timeless.

Artistically, Taylor has grown up and found her groove. Selfishly, we may still want fun songs to sing along and dance to like she gave us as a teen and twenty-something, but we should take her words from "August" to heart: "I can see us lost in the memory/August slipped away into a moment in time/Cause it was never mine."

Folklore: B+
Lover: A-
Reputation: C-
1989: B
Red: A
Speak Now: A-
Fearless: B+
Taylor Swift: Idk. I don't like country, never listened to it