She is often described using royal terminology-as a pop princess or, as the Washington Post put it recently, the “poet laureate of puberty.” In the past five years, she has sold more than twenty million albums-more than any other musician. Swift’s aura of innocence is not an act, exactly, but it can occasionally belie the scale of her success.
She tilts her head from side to side and appears to blink back tears-the expression, which is projected onto a pair of Jumbotron screens, is part Bambi, part Baby June. “It’s based on the decisions that you make in your life.” She is in the midst of her second world tour, and every show begins with a moment in which she stands silently at the lip of the stage and listens to her fans scream. “It’s a compliment on your character,” she told me. In a world of Lohans and Winehouses, Swift is often cited as a role model, a designation she takes seriously. She loves to wear makeup, but it tends to resemble stage makeup: red lipstick, thick mascara. She is tall and gangly, with porcelain skin, long butterscotch hair that seems crimped, as if from a time before curling irons, and smallish eyes that often look as if they were squinting.
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Swift has the pretty, but not aggressively sexy, look of a nineteen-thirties movie siren. The car door opened, and Swift got out to chants of “Tay- lor! Tay- lor!” Easing herself onto the sidewalk, she proceeded to the base of the stairs, and struck a pose before a phalanx of cameras: a sultry, fierce expression, one hand on her hip, her eyes narrowed, her head cocked back. There was a tent in front of the entrance, covering a red carpet, and across the street a mob of screaming spectators stood behind a barricade. The limestone hulk of the Metropolitan Museum came into view. “And I felt like that would be a really big deal if they wanted to sell one of my CDs.” “You go to Starbucks and there’s only, like, two CDs for sale,” she said. She said, in a solemn whisper, “I was so stoked about it, because it’s been one of my goals-I always go into Starbucks, and I wished that they would sell my album.” I found it hard to believe that she could feel enthusiastic about a sales opportunity at Starbucks, but Swift was insistent. (Both Winfrey and Swift made appearances at a recent Target sales conference, where Swift performed a funny song she’d written for the company, called “Red Shirt Khaki Pants.”) As the car turned onto Fifth Avenue, Swift recalled making a midnight trip, last fall, to buy her most recent album, the triple-platinum “Speak Now,” at a Starbucks in Times Square. While many young stars have a programmed, slightly robotic affect, she radiates unjaded sincerity no matter how contrived the situation-press junkets, awards shows, meet and greets. She has an Oprah-like gift for emotional expressiveness.
Swift is sometimes called a twenty-one-year-old 2.0-the girl next door, but with a superior talent set. So that’ll be really fun, because the past two times I’ve been at this party I haven’t had any of my close friends.” She exhaled loudly. “One of my best friends”-the actress Emma Stone-“is here tonight. “It’s so fun!” she said, talking about the ball. The only sound came from Swift’s iPhone, which emitted an occasional ding!Īfter a minute, Swift looked up from her phone. None of the car’s other passengers-her bodyguard, Greg, a burly former Washington, D.C., cop her publicist, Paula Erickson, a tall blond woman in a black blazer-spoke. Mendel spilled its train around her feet her hair was up her lips were dark red and her eyes were smoky. Swift is known for sparkly, beaded dresses that make her look like a flapper, but she had adopted a more polished look for the ball: a gauzy, black-and-peach dress by the designer J. One afternoon this spring, the twenty-one-year-old country pop star Taylor Swift was in the back seat of a black Escalade going up Madison Avenue, on her way to the annual Costume Institute Gala at the Metropolitan Museum. Swift hooked a previously unrecognized audience: teen-age girls who listen to country music.
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