Recently, I foresaw a moment many years from now, in which my as-yet-unborn children ask, from the backseat of a sensible car, if I attended Taylor Swift’s legendary Eras tour.
“I was there,” I’d tell them, dewy-eyed and reverent.
I wasn’t always like this. While I’ve lived and loved through Swift’s music for several of my own eras, pledging full allegiance as a white millennial woman felt too on-the-nose. But after months of screaming Reels, ticket scarcity, and near-religious experiences reported, I was overcome with projection anxiety. It was necessary to be honest and ask: Is this my Woodstock? Am I looking down the barrel of decades of regret if I miss it?
My sister had an extra ticket to this summer’s final U.S. Eras show, in Los Angeles. Acknowledging this miracle, I decided that if I had the privilege to witness pop history, I didn’t want to attend as a casual fan.
The prep was serious. I memorized the setlist and the song lyrics. (To clarify: it’s He looks up grinning like a devil, not He looks so pretty like a devil.) I speculated about the secret songs she’d sing between the 1989 and Midnights eras. I spread my arms to trust-fall into full Swiftie mode.
Being new here, I’ve learned that belonging to this subculture is like joining the least-exclusive club, in a good way. The communal spirit began the morning of the show, when I spent 30 minutes of the drive to L.A. behind a Pathfinder painted with the words “Honk If You Love Taylor!” I leaned in and gave a polite press of my horn. The semi-trucks sharing the road were even more enthusiastic.
Building a distinct world for each of her 10 albums, Swift has created a solar system by her early 30s. My 29-year-old sister, a resident of Planet Reputation (though she travels), explained to me that it’s notable Taylor doesn’t have any fashion or makeup lines, and she rarely promotes other projects, allowing her fans to focus their attention on her music and its obsessive myth-making.
Swifties yearn to relate to the woman who makes the minutiae monumental, the highly personal universal. At the stadium, I asked the security guard checking my ticket if she was a fan. She wore the beaded friendship bracelets that’ve become a currency of the tour. “I wasn’t, but I am after these six shows,” she told me. “Taylor and I have a lot in common. We both have the same initials and birth year.”
I nodded in respect and considered my own symmetries with the sun-sized star. I feel proud to share that we are both from the state of Pennsylvania.
Based on the show’s crowd, Swift has a multi-generational lock on millennials and Gen-Z, down to whatever they’re calling newborns. There is an era for nearly everyone. Even if you don’t know her music, it’s likely still penetrated your blood-brain barrier. I asked my husband, a Gen-Xer, if he could name any songs from her catalog. “‘1984?’ ‘All of My Ex-Boyfriends?’” Eventually: “‘Lover?’”
The last U.S. show fell on an auspicious date. “You guys are the luckiest people on the planet tonight,” Este Haim, of the opening band Haim, told the crowd. Because she’s a symbologist in addition to being a prolific songwriter, brilliant businesswoman, underrated vocalist, and—respectfully—a celestial babe, Swift was rumored to be leaving clues about announcing the release of 1989 (Taylor’s Version) on 8/9, and that evening, the will-she-or-won’t-she suspense felt like election-night stakes.
At 8 P.M., Swift took the stage. You know when you hear about those magical, transformative experiences people have on psychedelics? It was like that. Any remaining resistance evaporated as she led us on a journey through her—our—eras. “Welcome to church,” a friend replied to my Instagram stories from the show. In this faith, each glance, dress, and word Swift selects is deeply significant. Every minor feeling is major. “The new blue outfits…she’s announcing 1989 tonight,” my seatmate repeated like a prayer.
“You look cute and you look well-studied,” Swift said to the crowd, acknowledging both our attire and the density of her lyrics. Thanks, I mouthed, as if she were talking directly to me, awed at her ability to create a sense of intimacy with 70,000 people.
Eras asks us to set aside our cynicism and spend four hours earnestly enjoying ourselves. I nearly cried during the body-high chorus of “Cruel Summer.” I screamed along for the 10-minute standing ovation after “Champagne Problems.” And when Swift did, in fact, announce the release of 1989 (Taylor’s Version), it was like walking into the best surprise party you kind of already knew was going to happen, but with a stadium full of friends who share your birthday. Eras did that.
So, yes, I’ll be able to say with pride to the riveted next generation. “It was rare. I was there.”