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Raunchiness is the norm in today’s pop, but Swift is prim, rated G.She is a model of can-do 21st-century girl power whose vision of romance is positively medieval—fairy-­princess, shining-knight, prancing-­unicorn medieval.Introducing “Mean,” a song about bullying, Swift stood at the lip of the stage, picking at a banjo.“I always wanted to know and I always used to daydream about what it would be like to stand on a really big stage and sing songs for a lot of people, songs that I had written … 1 thing when I was little, because I didn’t have much of a social life going on.Swift’s ceilings are hung with all kinds of things: gathered silk, wooden birdcages, chandeliers, lanterns.Ornate railings line the apartment’s second-floor balconies; it looks like a stage set for a production of Romeo and Juliet—or for the scene in the final verse of Swift’s 2008 hit “Love Story.” In short, it’s exactly the kind of apartment you’d expect Taylor Swift to inhabit: whimsically girlie, dreamy, appointed in a style you might call Shabby-Chic Alice in Wonderland. Even when she’s touring, she tries to sleep in her own bed, picking the shortest distance to one of her three residences and flying home in her private jet after shows. You might not know it from her public persona, but Swift is funny; she has a dry, ready wit.On the wall of her ­living room, I noticed a photograph in a gilded frame: the famous image of Kanye West, stage-crashing Swift’s acceptance speech at the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards.Underneath the picture is a caption, handwritten by Swift: Life is full of little interruptions.

In a corner near a window, there’s a topiary rabbit, as tall as an NBA shooting guard, wearing a marching-band hat.

She can write the sickly sweetest love song you’ve ever heard and churn out the most bilious, vindictive, name-naming, slut-­shaming breakup ballad; often, they’re the same song.

Swift’s influence has reverberated through popular music, yet she remains sui generis, a genre of one.

” She scurried down a flight of steps offstage, where, presumably, a roadie was waiting with Kleenex.

For another star, the move would be inconceivable: a mystique-shattering breach of the fourth wall.

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