The global unveiling of "Shake It Off"-the lead single from Taylor Swift's fifth studio album, 1989, released five years ago Sunday-doubled as an uncomfortable public break-up. The song, a thumping dance number that brings to mind Gwen Stefani, the Black Eyed Peas, and "Party in the U.S.A."-era Miley Cyrus, marked a notable shift for a country singer-songwriter who rose to fame with a wistful track literally named "Tim McGraw," and, upon hearing it, the Country Music Association didn't seem sure how to react. "Good luck on your new venture @taylorswift13!" it tweeted, as if photos from an ex's spectacular destination wedding had just bubbled up to the top of its timeline. "We've LOVED watching you grow!"
As documented by The New Yorker's Kelefa Sanneh, CMA deleted its tweet in the hours that followed, and issued a clean-up statement asserting that its "best intentions" had been "misinterpreted," and it remained "fully supportive of Taylor as she expands her reach as an international superstar." Yet this was the exact source of tension that fans perceived: Swift had signaled a shift to pop before, particularly on Red in 2012, when "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" topped both the Billboard Hot 100 and Hot Country Songs charts. But in the lead-up to 1989's release, she had enthusiastically billed it as her "first documented, official pop album"-the final step in a transformation from acoustic teenage balladeer to an artist whose tours would require extensive choreography and a troupe of backup dancers. As Sanneh put it at the time, to many, that "Good luck" wish came off as "the spiteful cry of a genre scorned."
"Shake It Off," with its cringeworthy rapped bridge and allegations of clumsy cultural appropriation that stemmed from the video's depictions of twerking, was a somewhat inauspicious start to this new era, and created genuine uncertainty among dedicated Swifties and CMA social media managers alike as to what, exactly, her pivot away from country tropes and princess iconography would look like. The promotional release of "Welcome to New York," her synthy ode to the carefree joys of being a (young, rich) newcomer to a rapidly-gentrifying city, did not help.
Upon the album's release, though, fans were relieved to discover that the bulk of it was wildly good pop music, held together by a distinctively 1980s electronic sound that Swift said was inspired by artists like British rocker Peter Gabriel and former Eurythmics singer Annie Lennox. This was as much a savvy rollout strategy as it was a matter of nostalgic fondness: Since most of her then-competitors were borrowing heavily from modern hip-hop, centering her foray into pop on a unique sound from another era helped prevent Swift from blending in. The result is an ambitious album that somehow felt classic the moment it was released. Its highlight is "Style," a fatalistic, vaguely noir-ish account of young love in turmoil that features production from dependable hitmakers Max Martin and Shellback and makes the wide-eyed teenage optimism of "Sparks Fly" feel like it was created on another planet.
Three years later, when Swift released her follow-up, reputation, she did so in the aftermath of a high-profile feud with longtime frenemy Kanye West and his wife, Kim Kardashian West. Briefly, West rapped in a 2016 lyric that he and Swift "might still have sex"; after Swift publicly objected, Kardashian West released a video of a phone call in which Kanye asked Swift for her blessing, which the singer appears to have granted. Swift, for the record, countered that West never told her he would refer to her after the aforementioned "still have sex" line as "that bitch." But fighting the extended Kardashian social media universe is a fruitless endeavor, and after Kardashian West labeled Swift a "snake" on Twitter, Swift's social media handles were inundated with snake emoji-laden replies from observers who saw her objections as self-serving and duplicitous.
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