‘I’m the problem,’: An analysis of Taylor Swift’s ‘Anti-Hero’

Within a few minutes of the worldwide premiere of Taylor Swift’s tenth studio album Midnights, the Internet already picked one of its stand-out songs: “Anti-Hero.”

Swift’s exploration into folk with folklore and evermore slowly pulled her into the group of female musicians that have come to define “sad girl music.” The themes and level of storytelling of the two records tapped into a side of the singer that few have appreciated before, touching on concepts like self-image, depressing, and of course, heartbreak. Since Swift has mainly focused on re-recording her Taylor’s Version albums since the release of the two records, many were curious to see what genre she would explore for Midnights, especially without singles that would give a peek into what the album would sound like.

What awaited fans was a return to the signature-pop sound that defined some of her most prominent albums: Red, Reputation, Lover, and especially 1989. What Midnights does differently is Swift’s unapologetic detailing of her own demons–and “Anti-Hero” is an example of what she does best: masking pain with an upbeat pop instrumental.

“Anti-Hero” is arguably a sister to folklore’s “mirrorball” and “this is me trying” but zeroes in on self-loathing. The track opens with a nod to Swift’s age and maturity, something that she’s grown to welcome in her writing. In contrast to “Nothing New” off her Red (Taylor’s Version) cut where she grapples with the fear of growing older, Swift is more retrospective in “Anti-Hero,” assessing herself after all these years. She proceeds with one of the most satisfying alliterations I’ve heard in a while: “I should not be left to my own devices / They come with prices and vices / I end up in crisis / Tale as old as time.”

The track isn’t a pity party, in fact, I argue that it oozes with the frustration, anger, and self-loathing that the singer herself described the album as. Don’t let the pop beat fool you–even with the hook that audiences latched onto “It’s me / Hi / I’m the problem / It’s me”–the track is a self-portrait of someone who sees herself as a manipulator, calling herself the villain in the grander scheme of things. This is the departure from what “mirrorball” and “this is me trying” have at its core: Swift is still the protagonist in their stories. In “Anti-Hero,” she makes a 180 turn of her persona.

However, the track is not quite Reputation, a record often referred to as her “villain era.” Reputation had Swift owning and taking delight into “being the bad guy.” In contrast, “Anti-Hero” situates itself in the middle: not the hopeful protagonist, but not the full-blown villain. She is exactly what the track’s title refers to: an imperfect hero.

There’s nothing novel about “Anti-Hero,” and Swift makes it a point to emphasize that. The point is exactly that this isn’t new. Even within the song’s narrative, she writes herself coming to a quiet acceptance with who she is and how she views herself. “Anti-Hero” is an illustration of the singer’s prison that serves as the cost of her career, that even with almost two decades in the music industry under her belt and a hardworking fanbase, “It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero.”

In a description for the track, Swift shared, “I struggle a lot with the idea that my life has become unmanageably sized, and not to sound too dark, I struggle with the idea of not feeling like a person.” She is both victim and mastermind. “Anti-Hero” features a Taylor Swift conceding to the ghosts in her head, someone who refused to confront herself and focused on her career only to be forced to look at herself in the end.

Swift sits with her faults, not necessarily welcoming them but not shooing them away either. She has a drink with them, opens her door to them, in an unlikely ode to an acceptance of things being just the way they are–and to hell with it if she faces the consequences later.

‘Anyway, don’t be a stranger’: A love letter to ‘Scott Street’

There’s something magical about revisiting music you love–no matter how long it’s been, or how many times you listen to it mindlessly while cleaning–when you truly revisit a song, it always seems to take a different form.

I stumbled upon Phoebe Bridgers in late 2020, just on the cusp of a new year. Immediately, it was as if I was stuck in a trance. My room was filled to the brim with Phoebe Bridgers’ music and nothing else. It was the soundtrack of my mornings, tearfully making tea and journaling at a time when I believed that New Years Resolutions were something I could actually commit to this year (spoiler alert: I didn’t.)

There are many a Phoebe Bridgers song that I’ve cried to; I mean, she’s known for her Elliot Smith-inspired writing and emotional instrumentals. However, one song that’s always stood out to me was “Scott Street” off her debut album, Stranger in the Alps. For some, the track sticks out like a sore thumb in the album’s tracklist. It’s one of the record’s most soaring instrumentals–with a string-driven climax accented by the most random of sound effects: a bike bell, a train whistle, and a car airhorn. In the context of the entire album, it seems like it would be the perfect finale track to a generally stripped down, acoustic record. Instead, Phoebe Bridgers situates it right in the middle.

Whether or not this was intentional, or if there’s a larger-than-life reason as to why she placed it at the fifth spot, I argue that the song is one of her best. I don’t know how she did it, but she managed to perfectly encapsulate the soft pain of reminiscing. In the track’s story, Phoebe Bridgers puts audiences in the middle of a conversation with an ex-lover as they detail what’s changed since they last saw each other. In a way, she wrestles with the fact that things are no longer the same. When you dissect the lyrics, one could argue that it’s not even a conversation–she’s the one asking the questions. She prods, “What about your sister; what about the band?” and the other person just responds blankly. Then, a stark jump into a line that many quote from the song: “Do you feel ashamed when you hear my name?”

The song then builds into its unforgettable climax: a swelling of strings, Bridgers’ soft vocals layered behind the aforementioned bike bell, train whistle, and airhorn. She closes the conversation with a bittersweet goodbye: “Anyway, don’t be a stranger.”

In Scott Street, there is no promise of another conversation. Bridgers decides that maybe, the past isn’t worth clinging to. She buries this under the guise of small talk, of sisters and bands that aren’t the way they were anymore. Despite everything, she settles for a relationship just above strangers: acquaintances. Anyway, don’t be a stranger. It’s a lyrical masterclass of saying little but meaning much. Because of that, it immediately became my favorite among the tracks of her discography, and a go-to song when thinking aloud at 4 AM.

But just like most music you hyperfocus on, the magic wears off after a while. I never fully let go of Phoebe Bridgers–at this point, I was a self-confessed die-hard Phoebe Bridgers Superfan–but she took the backseat to other music I ended up enjoying and loving.

However, every once in a while, there’s a point in your life where you come crawling back. Maybe it’s two years and two exes later, and you’re sitting in a new room with furniture that’s barely a year old. But 4 AM is still 4 AM. I open Spotify, search up Stranger in the Alps, and there she is: sitting awkwardly at the fifth spot on the list like she always has. I press play and close my eyes. I say hello.

Happy birthday, Stranger in the Alps.

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Header image: Phoebe Bridgers via YouTube