Does anyone have any information about Taylor Swift’s future releases?
Even the most isolated bearded hermits residing on the electoral-free Outer Hebrides would be aware that the songstress from Pennsylvania let loose an eight-hour musical compilation called The Tortured Poets Department just last week. Is it conceivable for someone to be affluent and yet tormented? A squabble concerning the necessity of an apostrophe in the title ensued. Indeed, it did.
Amidst all the insignificant uproar, something slightly intriguing transpired at Paste magazine. The music journal, much to the astonishment of none who are acquainted with the fanaticism of Swift’s followers, chose to publish its negative critique anonymously. “The absence of an author’s name on this review is due to the fact that in 2019, when Paste reviewed Lover, our writer received violent threats from those who disagreed with the critique,” elucidated the editor on a platform other than Twitter.
Clare Martin, the author of that previous Swift album critique, confirmed the episode to Dave Hanratty on the No Encore podcast last week. She recalled, “Suddenly I was bombarded with hatred. It was fairly overwhelming. I remember that day. I ended up breaking down on the phone with my editor, Stephen. Such a lovely guy!”
Meanwhile unrelated articles raised some curiosity. One on Take That’s Dublin review wondering whose bright idea it was to include stairs in the performance set up, as Gary Barlow seemed out of breath during the astonishing show, and another with Richard Gadd discussing his Baby Reindeer show and the reality behind it, focusing on the difficulties people have in acknowledging their errors.
For as long as memory serves, pent-up frustrations have always found a voice in private arenas. Occasionally, someone might have grabbed a piece of Basildon Bond paper and scribed a heartfelt note to the editor in sparkling green ink. However, the widespread accessibility of social media now offers an immediate right of response, enabling such strained responses to reach the virtual space of journalists with remarkable speed, often accompanied by the blunt brutality of language. The sphere of film criticism isn’t exempted from this, as was evident last week with fervent followers of genial director Zack Snyder lashing out at critiques for his latest cinematic endeavour, ‘Rebel Moon: Part Two – The Scargiver’, described as predictably abysmal by critics. Reviews were lambasted for perceived bias and supposed affiliations. A classic reaction from movie franchise devotees who demand undivided compliance. Widespread reproach against critics, particularly targeting women, resulted in a leading film site withdrawing its comments section a decade ago due to negative comments around Batman.
Nonetheless, the scorn heaped on critics seems to be amplified within the music industry. Over the past decade, the predominantly female fanbase of musicians like Swift, Beyoncé, and Lady Gaga has been a subject of fascination, but the most hostile reactions I’ve encountered stem from negative critique of Morrissey and Oasis.
Music innately elicits a more communal reaction compared to films and taps into the primal psyche. The sight of a vocalist, stationed before a sea of ardent fans, engaging in mass mild manipulation is not far removed from the tactics employed by politicians. Memories of the mods and the rockers clashing on Brighton Beach half a century ago had nothing to do with their sentiments towards Jean-Luc Godard. Pop music continues to be a powerful driving force behind group dynamics – be it the age-old Beatles vs. The Stones rivalry, the 90s Blur vs Oasis feud, or the modern-day Beyoncé vs. Taylor Swift discourse.
It would be erroneous to imply that critics haven’t incurred violent retribution in the past. Bernard Levin, a renowned critic and commentator, famously endured an attack amidst his segment on the satirical programme That Was the Week that Was in 1963. He was rudely interrupted by a sophisticated man keen to defend his wife’s recent performance, which Levin had reviewed critically. This gallant challenger was Desmond Leslie, a man of many talents and the spouse of the acclaimed cabaret performer Agnes Bernelle.
Footage of this incident today notably highlights the surprising civility of Leslie’s actions. Despite potentially preferring to receive an uncouth letter than a punch from an ex-Spitfire pilot, the episode can be seen as decidedly more refined than the loud, digital outcry so predominant in modern opposition.
Nevertheless, it is worrisome if critics feel obligated to maintain anonymity to safely articulate apprehensive sentiments about a singer’s fierce lament over recently abandoned lovers. Not going unnoticed is the potential for critics to become inflated with self-importance. Presumably, those that dish it out should comfortably withstand receiving it. Irrespective of this, it is highly unlikely any of us are following our readers to their workplaces to physically confront them. The surplus of communication channels has ushered in an era where people unabashedly exhibit their worst behaviours, reminiscent of a time when minor offenders were subjected to a barrage of decaying vegetables at the town square. This unpleasant new norm is, regrettably, what we must now acclimate to.