“No one man should have that much power” — Police Officer speaking of Malcolm X
“Kendrick made you think about it/but he is not your savior” — Kendrick Lamar, “Savior”
Anyone who knows me well knows that I consider myself a huge Taylor Swift fan. Most people, upon hearing it for the first time, laugh with incredulity. I get it. I’m a black man with a wife and kids — not exactly what comes to mind when one thinks of a “Swiftie”. But I genuinely think she’s a talented songwriter with a knack for storytelling. And, perhaps, it’s the juxtaposition of my own fandom and the overwhelming success of her most recent efforts that’s got me thinking once again about celebrity, power, and the human inclination to worship.
On October 21, 2022, Taylor Swift released her tenth studio album, Midnights. This came on the heels on an already impressive run. Between Lover in 2019, a solid record in its own right, two critically acclaimed surprise folk albums in 2020, one of which won her her third Grammy for album of the year, making her the first female artist to have ever done so, and two re-recorded albums in 2021, no one was expecting new music any time soon. Courtesy of COVID-19, she hadn’t even toured or promoted the five albums she’d just released. Right when we all expected her to announce her next Taylor’s Version, she announced Midnights, a thirteen-track concept record telling the story of thirteen sleepless nights. Leaving behind both the upbeat pop stylings of 1989 and Lover as well as the folk sounds of Folklore and Evermore, she came with a sonically minimalistic dark pop that we hadn’t heard since reputation.
Both critics and fans went wild. Rolling Stone called it an instant classic; Pitchfork gave it a 7.0. Upon release, Midnights broke Spotify’s record for most streamed album in a 24-hour period, and Taylor Swift broke the record for most streamed artist. Not only did Midnights become the biggest pop album on Apple Music, but Taylor Swift also became the first artist in Billboard history to occupy all top 10 spots of their Hot 100 at once. Then came her tour announcement and before tickets even made it to public sale, Ticketmaster had to shut things down. Within a day, Taylor Swift sold 2 million tickets, the most Ticketmaster had ever sold in a single day. Demand crashed the site. Politicians railed against monopolies. Fans pursued legal action against the site. Taylor didn’t just break records. She shattered them and used the shards for sequin. Karma is her boyfriend indeed.
Somewhere in this is a conversation about Beyoncé and intersectionality but for now, it’ll suffice to say that Taylor Swift has entered a stratosphere of success that borders on the unimaginable. When there are people making their living hosting massive parties in which your fans come together to sing along with their favorite songs of yours without you even being there or having anything to do with it, what kind of power have you achieved?
Granted, Taylor Swift has been famous for a while now, and anyone who has followed her career can attest to the ways it has both added and subtracted from her life, how does that level of power not absolutely terrify you? Sure, there are some who revel in their idolization, surrounding themselves with sycophants. In some scenarios, the only way they could’ve achieved that level of success was by buying into their own hype before anyone else did. But what about those who understand themselves as, and desire to be, a regular human being? Suddenly it makes sense why celebrities become afraid to go outside, or to make their next move. Because when you’re elevated to the status of “god”, people put their faith in you, and the people who love you the most can quickly become your greatest detractors.
In his science fiction debut, An Absolutely Remarkable Thing, Hank Green outlines five tiers of fame. Tier 4 is what he calls true fame. This is when your humanity is so degraded people are legitimately surprised that you’re a regular human being. Your love life is the subject of magazines. You live behind a gate with an intercom on your driveway. According to his framework, true fame is a step below divinity, which is only achieved after a person has died. He has a point, but celebrity is a strange sort of objectification. You stop being a human being and start being a commodity for people to consume. The result is that you are simultaneously worshiped as a god, and therefore are understood to be out of reach, while also expected to capitulate to those who feel entitled to you. You may be god but don’t forget who signs your checks.
To be clear, this has less to do with Taylor Swift and more to do with our proclivity to worship. After all, when there are people making their living hosting massive parties in which those in attendance get no closer to the artist the party celebrates, and yet these events sell out as if it’s their actual concert, what does that say about us as people?
Whether or not we’d use these words, we are worshipful creatures. Each of us have something or someone we derive significance from or try to find fulfillment in. These things become the north star that guide our decision making. It’s as David Foster Wallace said in his address to Kenyon College, “In the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.” Be it God, money, love, science, or someone else, we all have something. It’s how we are designed; and more and more we’re seeing artists pushing back on being the object of our worship.
Back in 2013, there were a number of musicians challenging the idea their music had somehow saved people’s lives. Their argument was that it wasn’t true. Music might’ve helped pull people through dark times, but at the end of the day it was their resilience that enabled them to face the day. But I wonder how much of their response also had to do with the impossible amount of pressure behind those words. Even one person saying this would be a lot, but when hordes of people in countless cities say this to you, how are you supposed to sleep at night bearing the responsibility for all those lives? I think of Kendrick Lamar’s Mr. Morale and the Big Steppers. It’s interesting to me that even as we talk about Taylor Swift, Midnights, and all her success, she’s scaling these mountains with a lead single exposing herself as the source of all her problems.
I’ve written about, and devoted serious thought to, the parts of us that desire fame and notoriety. I’ve used contemporary examples as to why we should consider fame not something to be grasped and even talked about how we shouldn’t idolize people for the sake of our souls, but I don’t know if I’ve ever considered it for the sake of the soul of the person we’re idolizing. To place them on that pedestal is to eat away at their humanity. What if the most loving thing we can do for a person is not to deify them but regard them as a human being?
This hits home for me. I have a habit of idolizing the people I look up to. Anyone who I admire can do no wrong in my eyes. Their word is gold. Immediately they get elevated to some high status, making them highly uncomfortable, until they become smaller in my eyes. Some of my disillusionment is good. My idolization gives way to a more accurate appraisal of who they are, which enables me to love the person for who they actually are and not who I picture them to be. But I imagine it to be a jarring experience for the person on the receiving end, to be once so revered and then suddenly diminished.
In fact, the first time I met Andrew McMahon, I called him god. This was before I became a Christian. When I met him again a couple years later, after having turned over my life to Jesus, I felt inclined to amend my previous statement. As it turns out, he didn’t remember me saying it. His exact words were, “I generally try to forget when people say things like that.” The irony I couldn’t have known then was just how deeply entrenched his own agnosticism/atheism was. In calling him god, I called him something he wasn’t even sure existed. Reading his memoir, Three Pianos, last year was an eye opener. This person who I practically worshipped as god was way more human than I could’ve imagined, more human than I was comfortable with. The question was if I willing to accept him as he was, or would I sit in the disappointment of having watched my false idol fall?
The reality is that the people we admire can also be wrong. They don’t have the market on truth or all of reality. We may get a polished version of them, but they are more than that. They are three-dimensional beings whose greatest strengths are also their greatest weaknesses. It’s that complexity that makes them all the more human, worthy of our love but never our worship.
This begs the question: if we really are worshipful creatures, and other people are a terrible place to aim that level of devotion, then what do we do with that inclination? As a Christian, I would make an argument for Jesus (in fact, David Foster Wallace, would also say there are compelling reasons to consider this), but perhaps that’s another conversation for another day. For now, let’s just let humans be humans.
Tomy Wilkerson 