Taylor Swift Vulture Article
For many within the LGBTQ+ community, female pop icons like Madonna, Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, and Katy Perry hold a special place, particularly during adolescence. Publicly embracing fandom for these artists becomes an early act of self-affirmation, a chance to explore and express appreciation for the feminine in a social context. Lip-syncing, dancing, and deeply connecting with lyrics become subtle yet significant confirmations of identity. For some, including myself, Taylor Swift initially seemed to fit into this pantheon.
I recall vividly the summer of 2013 at a summer camp for gifted students when my Taylor Swift T-shirt – a souvenir from her Red Tour – sparked the realization that others perceived me as gay. The shirt, simple with just her name and tour title, was enough for my friends to categorize me: effeminate, girly, queer. Wearing that shirt felt liberating, a coded way to signal my difference, to subtly challenge gender norms while remaining safely within the bounds of pop music fandom. It was a way to express something more without explicitly stating it.
However, unlike her contemporaries who often acknowledge and engage with their LGBTQ+ fanbase, Taylor Swift has remained largely silent on the profound connection many queer individuals feel to her music. A significant portion of her audience navigates gender and sexuality through her songs, yet this relationship seems to be evolving in a way that is, frankly, not progressing.
Swift’s career began in country music, a genre she has progressively distanced herself from. Her early songs, reminiscent of typical country narratives, revolved around themes familiar to my Southern upbringing: heartbreak, simple joys, and romantic longing. While relatable, they didn’t personally resonate until her album Fearless. Here, her songwriting became more nuanced, more specific, and I began to see myself reflected in her narratives.
Songs like “Fifteen” and “You Belong With Me” transcended generic country tunes, becoming sophisticated coming-of-age stories. Swift positioned herself within love triangles, the underdog against popular girls, the “authentic” alternative to ultra-feminine rivals. Yet, even then, her lyrics operated within conventional gender roles, exemplified by the iconic “She wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts” line from “You Belong With Me.” Her early work reinforced a binary view of femininity, categorizing women as either “prude” or “slut” with limited empathy for the “other woman’s” perspective.
This dynamic mirrored popular narratives in teen media, from High School Musical to Glee and Wicked. The central conflict often revolved around the choice between the “nerdy” protagonist and the “popular” antagonist. Swift embodied this archetype, the wallflower singer who understood her love interest better than anyone. For nerdy, introspective girls, and crucially, for many young LGBTQ+ individuals, her music provided a romantic fantasy and a way to process longing.
For many young gay men, including myself, Swift became a bridge between our childhood country music influences and our burgeoning self-awareness. She offered both assimilation and fantasy. We could imagine ourselves as the “Taylor” in her songs, envisioning a heterosexual romance where we, the underdogs, won the affections of the desired boy. Her lyrics created a relatable world of high school anxieties, friendships, crushes, and bedroom singalongs. She was, seemingly, singing about our lives, or at least the lives of girls we knew, which felt close enough.
However, this fantasy came with inherent issues. The trope of pitting women against each other easily devolved into slut-shaming. “Better Than Revenge” from Speak Now exemplifies this, with its derogatory lyrics about a rival. Swift has since acknowledged the problematic message of this song, evolving both personally and artistically, embracing feminism and moving beyond simplistic female rivalries. Popular culture also seemed to mature, with narratives in teen media like High School Musical and Glee moving away from catfights and towards female solidarity.
While Swift moved away from overtly criticizing other women, she didn’t explicitly embrace lesbian representation. Her songs remained focused on heterosexual relationships, a core element of her appeal for gay male fans. Her public persona shifted towards female solidarity, cultivating a “squad” of famous female friends and championing women supporting women. This new image, exemplified by moments like bringing Lorde onstage during her 1989 tour, positioned Swift as the “prom queen,” a stark contrast to her earlier underdog persona.
This transformation marked a significant shift. No longer battling “slutty” or “popular” girls, Swift was free to explore her sexuality and image in less conventionally “innocent” ways. The cheerleader mockery of “You Belong With Me” evolved into the self-assured cheerleading sequence in the bridge of “Shake It Off.” She had become the very archetype she once critiqued. This evolution, while positive in its portrayal of women, fundamentally altered her relationship with her fans, particularly her gay fans, leading to a new, undefined dynamic.
The music video for “Mean” offered the first visual representation of an LGBTQ+ individual in Swift’s work. The song, her last full-fledged country single, features a bullied young man coded as gay – impeccably dressed, clutching a fashion magazine, lip-syncing to Swift’s lyrics in a locker room scene. “Mean” became an anthem for the marginalized, for those dreaming of escaping small-town limitations. The video culminates with this young man finding success as a fashion designer, a relatable fantasy for many.
Yet, this representation felt limited. While acknowledging gay male fans as subjects of her songs, Swift avoided delving into the realities of their struggles or their attractions. It was a fantasy of success without engaging with the underlying pain or identity. Was it too much to expect depth from a country-pop song?
Gay male fans reappeared in the “Shake it Off” video, a song marking Swift’s definitive shift to dance-pop. The video blurs sincerity and satire, featuring Swift’s self-deprecating humor alongside enthusiastic fans, many of whom were gay men, dancing alongside her, “shaking off” negativity.
“Shake It Off,” while universally appealing, felt less connected to the specific experiences of LGBTQ+ individuals. The focus shifted to Swift’s celebrity and public scrutiny. Her songs moved from personal stories of a small-town girl to the experiences of global superstar Taylor Swift. LGBTQ+ fans were no longer the subject; we were now guests at her party.
This evolution culminated in the “Look What You Made Me Do” music video, arguably her “gayest” and most controversial work. The song itself is a chaotic blend of electro-pop, but the video seemed to directly draw from gay culture, referencing “receipts,” “tea,” and snake emojis, alluding to her public feuds. Todrick Hall, a prominent gay Black drag performer and YouTuber, was prominently featured alongside a diverse group of dancers coded as gay.
However, in “Look What You Made Me Do,” the dynamic shifted further. The dancers, including Hall, felt like props, background elements meant to enhance Swift’s image. Their movements were controlled, their individuality minimized, dressed in “I <3 TS” crop tops, mirroring Swift’s choreography. Hall’s talent was sidelined, his purpose seemingly to support Swift. LGBTQ+ representation in her videos had evolved from empathetic subjects to enthusiastic fans to background decoration, all while her lyrics became increasingly self-centered and detached from their narratives.
This progression has led to a disappointing outcome: diva worship. Instead of offering a space for LGBTQ+ individuals to explore their identities and fantasies, we are relegated to the role of props in Swift’s narrative of self-empowerment. This feels particularly manipulative given the overt appropriation of gay culture in her recent work, especially in “Look What You Made Me Do.” It feels as though we are meant to cheer “Yaaaas queen!” rather than genuinely connect with the song’s emotional core.
Swift’s album Reputation, released amidst criticism of her political silence, further exemplifies this self-obsessive trend. Critics like Mark Harris connected the feud-driven nature of “Look What You Made Me Do” to Trump-era narcissism and denial of responsibility. As other pop stars embrace authenticity and vulnerability, Swift leans further into pop spectacle, abandoning her singer-songwriter roots. Her constant reinventions, while sometimes successful, risk alienating fans who connected with earlier, more personal aspects of her music.
Reputation is ultimately about Swift’s image, her carefully constructed persona. By addressing her critics within her songs, she attempts to preemptively deflect criticism. However, the superficial engagement with gay culture, particularly in the “Look What You Made Me Do” video, forces a reevaluation of my relationship with Swift. The problematic love-triangle tropes of her early work have been replaced by a form of diva worship that feels equally exclusionary. The hinted-at inclusivity of gay male perspectives has regressed to mere background representation.
While Swift’s pop craftsmanship remains undeniable, the emotional connection, the musical storytelling that resonated with my LGBTQ+ experience, feels lost. Perhaps I was projecting my own desires onto her lyrics all along, and the limitations of that projection are now starkly apparent. It is disheartening to imagine future generations of young gay men facing scrutiny for their Taylor Swift fandom. They deserve an artist who actively advocates for them, who genuinely acknowledges and supports her LGBTQ+ fans. While I may still find catchy tunes on Reputation, the transcendent connection I once felt to her music is unlikely to return. Taylor, look what you made me do indeed.
