Or Forever Hold My Peace?? No. My Review of Taylor Swift's "Speak Now"

Alright, y’all. So, I done the unthinkable. I sat and listened to all the samples of the new songs by Taylor Swift from her upcoming album on iTunes. Hey, I’m not an official music writer anymore. I take what I can get, mmmkay?? At any rate, I was hoping this time I would understand what the fuss is all about. Unfortunately for the rest of you, I don’t.

Manalive, is that thing getting some heavy-handed advertising!! I’m just going to go there and say this, because it’s unreal how viral this catalogue has become without even having been officially released: the girl may play a virgin, but she’s a media whore. The damn thing’s already so pervasive it’s taken over my entertainment magazines, my iTunes, my OnDemand. Sell, sell, sell.

I know I’ve said this before, and you know I’ll say it again, but I do not like Taylor Swift’s voice. I’m sure she’s a very nice girl, but for whatever reason, when she “sings” it hits a register that causes my muscles to lock and my brain stem to numb and turn cold in a way I’ve only experienced on rare occasions of unmitigated frustration that I shall choose not to expound upon at this time for personal reasons. It makes me want to skewer my own eardrums. Her voice scratches against my auditory palette like the time I accidentally sliced my knuckle on a cheese grater; it was painful, messy and the irritation stayed with me for days. You know that bit Dane Cook does about that sound that makes you want to punch a baby?? Well, for me it’s Taylor Swift’s voice.

But I digress.

I was hoping that her music had matured into something more than yet another opus about nothing but love and loss, boyfriends and break-ups, high-school pseudo-romance and all its unheavenly consequences. Well, some of them anyway. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Swift has stayed true to the formula that made her a household name and penned more love, love, love, love, love, peppered with some loss, some disenchantment and some slightly biting cattiness and pseudo-rebellion, which is hilarious coming from a child-woman who wouldn’t know rebellion if it stepped on the other side of her face. Though she makes reference to marriage this time around, she still hasn’t seemed to have received the memo that she’s no longer fifteen. I look forward to the day when her bland, boring, whiny genre of counterfeit country music no longer squats upon the Top 40 in the back of Rolling Stone for years at a time and makes its way to the bargain bin at the used CD store where it belongs. Just because her childlike innocence sells tunes does not mean that Swift is relevant or has talent for anything other than choosing a top-notch marketing team. The music industry should implicate a statute of limitations regarding how long an individual can play on girlhood dreams of romance and roses before they’re required to write a hit song about waiting in line at the bank, and their childhood career be euthanized.

Taylor Swift’s third album, as I’ve heard it so far, plays out like a junior in high school wishing she were older; nothing more, nothing less. It’s as sweet as a fried Twinkie, and just as bad for you.