Taylor Swift: a behemoth of pop power and songwriting mastery, ever at the top of the charts, always rerouting the currents of the pop genre’s waters. Yet with “The Life of a Showgirl,” Swift succumbs to the rapids of a movement she once pioneered. Even the best of the album would be the weakest track on a previous record, while the worst songs sink to new lows for the pop virtuoso.

A heartbreaking loss for those who love to get lost in her lyrics, Swift’s previously present artistry is nowhere to be found in the one-dimensional sugar pop throwaways that leave a saccharine taste in the mouth throughout her latest album, which was released Friday.

The album has its highs: “Opalite” has upbeat, doo-wop sensibilities and succeeds in its playfulness thanks to Swift’s lower register over an upbeat track. Despite being flawed, “Ruin the Friendship” features a glimmer of storytelling from her “Fearless” days. Nevertheless, even the best songs on the album pale in comparison to her previous work.

Playfulness is not unwelcome among sophisti-pop artists, especially following a more heady, conceptual project — look no further than Tyler, The Creator following “CHROMAKOPIA” with “DON’T TAP THE GLASS.”

However, after the already underbaked “THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT” had fans questioning her pen game, “The Life of the Showgirl” substitutes a sense of play and exploration for vapidity, often opting for flawed metaphors and clunky allusions that underestimate the intelligence of the listener.

The album kicks off with a bastardized reference to Shakespeare’s Ophelia, one of several casualties in “Hamlet.” Like the sweet opening piano plucks that abruptly glaze over into uninteresting synths, the title of the song, “The Fate of Ophelia,” promises a nuanced subject before revealing an underdeveloped interpretation of Ophelia’s demise.

Swift’s breathy vocals can’t make up for the fact that Ophelia’s fate was sealed before she entered her grave, a rejected, newly orphaned single woman at court and possibly a bereft mother.

The lyric “You dug me out of my grave and / Saved my heart from the fate of Ophelia” feels like yet another attempt to rewrite a Shakespearean tragedy, only this time, she didn’t read the play and instead skimmed the English literature canon for a reference of heartbreak.

“The Fate of Ophelia” brings another new and unwelcome tic to the forefront, as Swift has developed — or rather devolved into — the habit of forcing in syllables and awkward diction into already-busy lyrics in an attempt at memorable songwriting.

Another major culprit of word gargling, “Elizabeth Taylor” is filled to the brim with forgettable lyrics and tossed-in references to the song’s namesake, all surrounded by unnecessary prepositions that make the thread of the song treacherous to follow in a soup of syllables.

Evidently, Swift is a student of pop culture and wears her influences on her sleeve, interpolating the melody of George Michael’s “Father Figure” in her song of the same name and crediting Michael as a writer on her track. However, the thematic and titular reference makes little sense, only highlighted by an amateurish lyrical rhythm that lacks parallelism, especially in the misplaced line, “I can make deals with the devil because my dick’s bigger.”

It’s especially shocking that the main downfall of this album is its lackluster and hilariously explicit songwriting coming from an artist championed for her evergreen and universal lyrical chops from the moment she entered the music industry. Tracks like The Jackson 5’s sonic cousin “Wood” — a song tipping over with dick-uendos in every other line — and overly falsetto “Wi$h Li$t”, are distractingly sexual or explicit despite having relatively interesting hooks.

Although the guitar motif maintains a gorgeous tone, “Actually Romantic” adds to Swift’s collection of nebulous and unsuccessfully hyperbolic diss tracks about the women — or a cuttingly sympathetic Charli xcx — who have wronged her, with lukewarm insults that were once cute and relatable in tracks like “Better Than Revenge.” But after years of beefing with artists who are inevitably smaller than her, it begs for eye rolls rather than wide eyes.

However, the lack of subtlety on “The Life of the Showgirl” reads less like a loss of talent and more like a lack of editing and external input. Rather than her loved-up personal life having a dampening effect on her poeticism as some listeners suspect, the album’s offensively boring tracks, filled with slang words that date the album, appear to be a product of Swift’s artistic environment.

Songs like “Eldest Daughter,” the poor man’s “mirrorball” or “CANCELLED!,” the poor man’s “New Romantics” or “Honey,” the poor man’s “Daylight” and even the album’s title track featuring Sabrina Carpenter, the poor man’s “Clara Bow,” reflect a corporate writing environment devoid of artistic presence.

Instead, Swift has made room for yes-men who affirm her status as a money bank rather than question the predictable chord progressions from Max Martin and Shellback or Swift’s Tumblr-post-worthy lyrics.
The problem isn’t that Swift is happy — on the contrary, the problem is that Swift is complacent. In “The Life of a Showgirl,” she relies on her reputation as an elite songwriter to convince fans to trust that she’s just playing around when she calls women she doesn’t like “bitches” in several songs. But after three albums straight of some of her weakest songwriting, she needs to push the envelope rather than seal it with a kiss and a wink.

As Swift sings in “Opalite,” “failure brings you freedom.” If her money is where her mouth is and the words are true, Swift isn’t quite free yet, but “The Life of a Showgirl” brings her a whole lot closer.