Matt lives The Life of a Showgirl (review)

Taylor Swift: 

The Life of a Showgirl

By Matt (@Cleric20) Adcock 

It starts with static.

Not silence, static, like the sound of old Hollywood trying to reboot itself on a dying hard drive.

Then comes the hum.

A synth shiver, a breath that feels half-human, half-machine. And then: Taylor.

Not the wide-eyed ingénue. Not the cardigan poet.

This time, she strides onto the virtual stage as something other.

A cyber goddess in sequins, transmitting heartbreak across the grid.

This album feels like watching fame eat itself in slow motion, neon fangs and digital mascara, but Taylor doesn’t flinch. She conducts the whole shimmering disaster with a flick of her hand. The Life of a Showgirl is a concept album disguised as a pop record, a fever-dream manifesto about identity, illusion, and the cost of being adored.

It’s an album that wants you to dance but also to look at what’s twitching under the glitter.

There’s a line (in “Wi$hli$t”) that caught me sideways:

“We tell the world to leave us the fuck alone, and they do.”

That’s the thesis right there.

Swift has always been meta, but here she’s radioactive. She’s uploading memories into melody, weaponising charm, rewriting the firmware of femininity under pressure.

The Songs That Glitch Beautifully

“Wi$hli$t” is the purest heartbreak code,  a twilight lament whispered into the circuitry of longing and playfully taking down those vibing life’s superficial desires…

“Elizabeth Taylor” isn’t just a song, it’s a séance. She channels the old-world glamour ghost like it’s living inside her bloodstream fame as both mirror and curse. When the beat drops, you can almost hear diamonds cracking.

And “Honey” … oh God. It’s narcotic, dangerous, sticky with desire and self-awareness. It could be a love song or a weapon. Maybe both. The sweetness turns venomous, it’s a reflection that’s been selling her to the world.

Taylor’s production team have made this thing sound like a memory you shouldn’t have access to: a sleek pop one moment, distorted VHS playback the next. It’s Blade Runner Barbie filtered through Black Mirror, scored by the ghosts of disco balls past.

There’s no filler, just confessions in chrome, sighs encoded in reverb. Even when she falters, it feels intentional, like she’s daring the façade to crack.

The Life of a Showgirl will mesmerize you and burn a Taylor-shaped silhouette onto your neural interface and leave you wondering if any of it was real.

By the time the final track fades, you half expect her to wink and dissolve into pixels.

Because that’s the trick, isn’t it?

The real Taylor Swift doesn’t exist anymore.

She’s still touring in 2242 - check my Complete Darkness comic 😀