Watching People Watch Taylor Swift

A phenomenon

I told myself I wouldn’t look at the stories. I wouldn’t read the articles. I wouldn’t swipe through the reels. I wanted the Taylor Swift concert— you know the one— to be a relative surprise.

Friends posted. My Instagram discover page taunted me with her anthemic bops and crystal-laden bodysuits. I resisted. The experience, I told myself, would be pure. 

When the night came, I wore a shirt from the first and only other time I’d seen her live. It’s yellow and sweat-stained, with Taylor’s fresh face encased in ringlets. That was 2007, when she opened for Rascal Flatts at the Tacoma Dome. My friend Leah and I went specifically for Taylor, not RF. Life is a highway? Whatever. We wanted to hear about the teardrops on her guitar.

This time around, Leah went to the Seattle show. My tickets were in LA a week or so later, and she didn’t spoil anything for me, but afterward texted saying it was amazing, and in days that followed she’d been crying randomly. “Buckle up,” she wrote.

I buckled up. Literally. My friend Sarah and I did extensive research on the best way to get to the concert, and it was determined that our highs would be pure, too. Who says you can’t get drunk on adrenaline? We would drive.

We parked at the Forum, a venue that reserved ample parking just for Taylor’s six-night stint at SoFi Stadium, next door. All that, even though another artist was performing at the Forum the same evening. (Poor Beck.) Sarah wore all black in a nod to Midnights, and we were pleased with the juxtaposition of our outfits: me, gesturing to the early work, her, the later stuff. 

On our way in, we passed groups of women whose attire I can only describe as…Professional Taylor Swift Fans. I wanted to photograph and interview and hear the life story of every single one of them. Ladies and gentlemen and gentleman-ladies wore diamonds in their hair, cowboy boots on their feet, glitter from head to toe. Every color of the rainbow was represented, often at the same time. There was fringe and ruffles and all phases of Taylor’s oeuvre were covered. A woman in a track outfit a la “You Belong To Me” stood next to a middle-aged man wearing a shirt that said “It’s Me. Hi. I’m The Dad. It’s Me.”

I was tickled pink. Pink as the bucket hat I almost bought outside the stadium that read, simply: “I <3 Taylor.” You know something sparks joy if you still think about it weeks later. The one that got away.

We thought we were clever and arrived a couple of hours early to secure merch. Oh, the naivety! Multiple lines wrapped around the stadium. We pivoted and ordered drinks. On the menu: a “Shake it Off Margarita”, the “Love Story Lemonade,” and “Out of The Woods,” in which Mountain Dew was a main ingredient.

The bartender wore a stack of friendship bracelets, all gifted from fans. “My niece keeps trying to steal them when I get home” he said, in a tone that implied this was annoying. Like, he wanted those friendship bracelets for himself.

Sarah and I were on the aisle (great for dancing), and in front of us were two women in their early 20s. These ladies took pictures of each other like it was their actual job. One wore a lavender faux fur jacket (it was 80 degrees), and the other a cherry red nap dress. They posed flawlessly. With every punch-of-thumb-to-iPhone, a different position. Leg pop! Arm pop! Hands in the air! Hands in the shape of a heart! Repeat. “Professionals,” we muttered under our breath.

When Taylor appeared on stage— there’s no other way to say this—people lost their god damn minds. WE lost our god damn minds! The cheering was tectonic and goosebump-inducing and like nothing I’d ever heard. The music started, and we were off. 

I would recount the songs and the dancing and the surprise acoustic set, but I’m sure you’ve heard: the concert was a three and a half hour marathon. Astounding. I hesitate to admit this, but at the 2:45 marker, I DID yawn. Just a little! Oh, give me a break. I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling 22 anymore. (Fun fact: I am the first person to ever make that joke.)

Still, there is nothing quite like an NFL-sized stadium of people, mostly women, singing a ten minute breakup song in unison. How do we harness that power into, like, sustainable energy? Someone needs to work on it.

The most curious part of the show was about an hour in, during the “Evermore” era. Taylor sang “Champagne Problems” while sitting at a moss-covered piano. When the song ended, this happened:

Later, I’d learn there were all sorts of traditions I wasn’t privy to on this tour. The applause break after “Champagne Problems,” chants and dance moves and times when we were all supposed to turn on our phone flashlights and sway. A consequence of “purity” was missing the memo.

Don’t get me wrong, there was magic that night, without a doubt. But it was Taylor’s Magic, which is to say: Meticulously Planned Magic.

The fans know this. Taylor knows the fans know this. Everyone is self-aware and in on it. And I think that’s what made being at the concert so unique. This wasn’t like a cult, where participants blindly follow the leader. After all, the audience dictates the doctrine just as much as Taylor does. And it wasn’t like watching sports, where someone wins and someone loses. No, if anything, it was a sleepover. An enormous but somehow still intimate gathering of friends. Where everyone talked the night before about what to wear (anything) and when to sing (always).

At the sleepover, one girl holds court. She tells her stories, and we look back at her, adoring faces with whom she has everything and nothing in common. In their eyes, her heartbreaks are their heartbreaks. In their voices, pain and elation from moments when they felt the way she felt, too.

Yes, perhaps the only thing better than watching Taylor Swift, is watching people watch Taylor Swift.