I WATCHED ‘MISS AMERICANA’, the new Taylor Swift documentary, this weekend. I laughed, cried, revisited a longstanding theory re: how criminally undervalued good pop music is – how effortlessly it takes huge feelings, compresses them into easily digested, high-octane morsels of what might seem like nothing much if they weren’t also shaking your very soul – but mainly, I thought: blow me! She’s human. A forceful, vulnerable, rabid contradiction, who makes no sense, but also, all sense, is as filled with anxiety as she is boundless ambition, carries her cat in a Perspex backpack and worries about gay rights and performs in front of a kajillion people like it’s nothing, but gets an eating disorder, because how else does anyone sensibly respond to her level of scrutiny?
Eh?
If I’ve…
