As dawn breaks, I find myself remarkably equipped for the rhythmic tunes awaiting me. The Between the Eras Tour film (seen twice), the specially curated concert Spotify playlists, the continuous flurry of snippets on Instagram, the books gifted during Christmas, and the joyous car and kitchen discussions and singalongs have all made Taylor Swift my wheelhouse – the subject I would undoubtedly excel in, if I were on Mastermind.
The Pope residence, in which I’m incredibly fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful women, has dived headfirst into the Eras tour for over a year. The wave of enthusiastic optimism was contagious and inescapable.
The memory of the stressful, sweltering day at the campsite, where two Macs and an iPad nearly malfunctioned due to overheating while desperately trying to secure tickets for one of her three Dublin shows, has blurred into the background.
On that day, I also suffered from the sweltering temperature, which nearly pushed me over the edge considering the financial strain it induced. Nonetheless, the price for five tickets had an extreme impact on our budget. The prudency of a thrifty penny-pincher like me spending so lavishly may raise questions for some, they may even voice opinions on the matter. But by my estimates, our investment wasn’t confined to the tickets, glitzy clothes, bracelet making kit, or merchandise. We also purchased a year’s worth of thrill and expectation as well as a countless number of memories tied to Taylor Swift post-concert.
That, to me, justifies the expenditure.
In terms of frugality, after some – or rather, no – contemplation, I decided to attend the first of the three scheduled Taylor Swift nights in Dublin in my Evermore era outfit, mainly because it’s simply a plaid shirt, exactly the one I wore at the premiere of the Eras tour film. If nothing else, I’m economical.
I’m a practical man as well. The weather appears cool and overcast as we ready ourselves. My thick shirt is perfect to tackle the cold.
The others in my group are not particularly concerned about staying warm. Room temperature seems to be the least of their concerns. I present the idea of my daughters donning jackets – or perhaps a plaid shirt?
I am met with disdainful gawks.
Two disregard me completely. “Are you expecting me to alter the ensemble I’ve been envisioning for a year?” retorts the third, “And don a plaid shirt?”
Hm, negative.
Definitely not.
“My youngsters inquire in a cheerful tone, would I let them throw sequins all over my scalp, akin to a disco ball?”
In response, I offer a resounding no.
However, we compromise eventually on sprinkling glitter on my face and hands, finishing with a slight dusting on my head before heading out.
We park our car in the city centre, starting our lengthy trek towards Dublin 4. During our journey, when crossing the canal, we encounter the lost Megan Grogan.
Having just arrived from Los Angeles, she’s trying to acclimate and familiarise herself with her surroundings. Although not venturing out tonight, Megan states she’ll attend Swift’s second gig. “I aim to comprehend the layout of this location to avoid misdirection tomorrow,” she explains.
Did she not think travelling 6,000 miles to see Taylor Swift was excessive?
“Well, it might seem so, given that I’ve already attended this tour. But my mate here hasn’t,” she professes, referring to her companion. Megan believes it was more economical to see Swift perform in Dublin, as securing a ticket, and still managing to pay for meals and rent in the States was challenging.
Is Dublin really affordable? This comes as a surprise.
With Megan having gained a sense of the city’s layout, her primary concern now lies with the problematic Pilots Department. As she’s scheduled to fly with Aer Lingus on Tuesday, she’s uncertain of the feasibility due to the current issues. However, she remains hopeful of resolution by then.
During our conversation, a man strolls by — one of the few on the street wearing a shirt proclaiming, “I am a Swiftie by choice — my daughter’s choice.”
Engaging with a knowing glance, I sense he appreciates the practical advantages of my tartan shirt, just as I admire his forthright apparel.
Suddenly, we spot the imposing stadium and a tough yet captivating gothic girl with her PVC attire, fish-net stockings and towering black boots saunters towards my kids. In a benevolent Northern accent, she casually proposes, “Fancy a swap?”
She’s adorned with numerous homemade friendship bracelets, that perfectly match my children’s. A transaction swiftly takes place and we proceed. This interaction plays out similarly several times as we navigate through the glimmering summer throng. It’s genuinely endearing.
In spite of owning a handful of bangles, no one invites me to exchange them with theirs. It’s actually in everyone’s best interest. Their design isn’t suitable for my considerably large wrists — my current ones restrict blood flow to my fingers, and it’s still early in the afternoon.
Eventually, we find ourselves within the confines of the stadium, and comfortably settle into our allotted chairs after stopping at a merchandise stand. In close proximity is a fellow, roughly my age range, donning a comical ‘Tortured Dads Department’ shirt. I was unaware there was an unwritten funny t-shirt etiquette for fathers in attendance.
This particular gentleman, Adam Francis-Verbeelen, travelled with his family from Austin, Texas to spend the weekend. He mentions the astronomical ticket prices back home. When asked whether he’s an ardent Swiftie, he gestured towards his daughter Gabby, saying, “I might not be as much of a fan as her, but her joy is priceless to me”.
Paramore commands the stage as the clock strikes six. Lead vocalist Haley Williams, wearing a Cranberries shirt, delivers a performance that is excellent and deafening, but not loud enough to rouse my snoozing six-year-old.
Shortly past seven, a countdown clock signals it’s time to wake her up. My older daughters bring me up to speed with the rhythmic chants, leaving me feeling a bit apprehensive. It strikes me that I’m nowhere near prepared for this. I don’t believe I could fully prepare myself for an experience mirroring a youth-of-Ireland-led spiritual rejuvenation. I’ve been to see the Pope in Galway, you know, but I remember little more than being trapped in a portable lavatory during his most famous speech.
But I digress.
Now it’s Taylor’s Time.
She abruptly appears on stage and on the enormous backdrop, towering over us; a bling-encrusted apparition ready to make our universe glisten.
Trust me when I tell you that this surrounding universe did indeed glisten for an astounding three hours and twenty minutes.
It’s mind-boggling to think that the uproar of teenage screams at the infamous Beatles concert in Chicago’s Shea Stadium could have been louder than what I’ve heard from today’s youth. Despite having attended numerous concerts across small and large venues, nothing compares to the screams that echoed during Taylor Swift’s concert.
The screaming was incessant, with each song being received as though it was her most popular, harmoniously sung in complete unison by a crowd of 50,000. Although I tried my best, even I couldn’t follow suit.
The conclusion of ‘We Are Never Getting Back Together’ was graced with a ‘póg mo thóin’ chorus from all in attendance, including one of her dancers, which brought immense pleasure to the crowd.
With every performance, Taylor Swift seems to surprise her audience, creating an atmosphere where confetti masquerades as snow during her performance of ‘All Too Well’.
In a spontaneous outburst, the crowd joined together shouting ‘f**k the patriarchy’, a chant I joined in on too, momentarily forgetting my role as a middle-aged white man in the sea of youth.
Within the crowd, a young girl was spotted FaceTiming her friend during Swift’s performance of ‘Betty’. Their joint emotion was palpable as they sung along through tears.
My futile attempt to mask the expletive words of ‘Betty’ and protect my six-year-old’s ears was overtaken by the enthusiastic chorus. Even the youngest one joined in, matching the teenagers word for word.
Following ‘Champagne Problems’, Taylor’s stunned expression and her silent ‘I love you guys so much’ conveyed her overwhelmed state at the crowd’s euphoric response. Of course, the audience reciprocated her love through the soulful Olé Olé Olé chant.
Swift declared our brilliance as a crowd, a statement we willingly received. Contrastingly, Matty Healy met a similar chant with a dismissive remark of the Irish as ‘a simple people’.
A song should be penned about him. They might just be working on it.
Swift’s performances are aptly charted by brief pauses and quick costume changes, signifying the start of a different era. For the performance of ‘1989’, she flaunted an outfit symbolising the Irish flag with its vibrant orange shorts and sparkling green top.
The last spectacle of any artist donned in our flag’s hues for our pleasure that I witnessed was the Beastie Boys’ performance in another muddy Galway field, although their footwear lacked the sparkle and the famed designer touch of Christian Louboutin.
My allegiance does not lie with the Swift Army, and it shouldn’t, but it’s hard to ignore the extraordinary nature of the Eras experience; it’s seemingly from another dimension. It’s a far cry from the ‘Cool Dad’ aura I envisaged myself radiating at this stage, but it fundamentally remains the paragon of experiences. It would be unwise not to rejoice in it.
Post her inaugural Dublin night, there’s absolutely no disputing her unparalleled brilliance in the contemporary world. There may be skeptics who hold contrary views, but in the indignant words of my six-year-old, ‘fukit.’
Taylor, we owe you our thanks.