Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, so here goes.
Taylor Swift’s “1989” — an antiseptic pop album scrubbed of any greasy country music fingerprints — qualifies as a rare and exquisite dud. When it’s triumphant, it’s like that Super Bowl Sunday when your team is up 42 points at the half. When it’s bland, it’s like noshing on empty calories in a dream you won’t remember. Sometimes, somehow, it’s both.
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