The Swift Effect: VMAs 2024 and the Tyranny of Bland Ambition

Let’s just say it: the VMAs used to be fun. A little messy, sure. Maybe even a lot. But there was an electricity, a sense of genuine anything-could-happen chaos that kept you glued to the screen. This year? Not so much. It felt…sanitized. Like watching a highly produced, meticulously choreographed infomercial for a product nobody really wants anymore.

And look, I get it. Times change. MTV isn't exactly the cultural behemoth it once was, and maybe courting controversy isn't the best way to rake in those Gen Z eyeballs. But somewhere between Britney’s python and Miley’s foam finger, something crucial got lost. The audacity, the raw nerve, the sheer bloody-minded refusal to play it safe – it’s all been replaced by this bland, calculated ambition.

Which brings us to Taylor Swift. The night’s undisputed victor, sweeping awards like she was running unopposed (which, let’s be honest, she practically was). And don't get me wrong, she’s undeniably talented. A songwriter of remarkable skill, a savvy businesswoman, a master of her own meticulously crafted image. But watching her accept award after award, the same polished smile plastered on her face, I couldn't help but feel a pang of…disappointment.

Where was the hunger? The raw, messy ambition that used to define these awards? The kind that drove Madonna to writhe around in a wedding dress or Kanye to snatch the mic from a bewildered Taylor Swift (ah, simpler times). It’s been replaced by something smoother, more palatable, but ultimately less interesting. A kind of ambition that’s all about racking up accolades and breaking records, about playing the game perfectly instead of upending the board altogether.

And it’s not just Swift. It’s everywhere you look in pop music these days. The perfectly curated Instagram feeds, the carefully calculated scandals, the music videos that feel more like extended perfume commercials than artistic statements. It’s all so…safe. So predictable. And ultimately, so very, very dull.

I remember a time when fashion shows were like that too. A parade of perfectly pleasant clothes, devoid of any real point of view. It was during one particularly bland show, I think it was some forgettable New York label, that I scribbled a note in my notebook: “Where’s the blood?” I wasn’t being literal, of course (though a little shock value never hurt anyone). I was desperate for something real, something that felt genuinely risky and new.

That’s what’s missing from the VMAs, from pop music, from so much of culture these days. The blood. The guts. The willingness to shock, to provoke, to fail spectacularly. We’re so busy celebrating success, we’ve forgotten that true artistry often lies in the messy, uncomfortable, and unexpected.

So here’s to hoping that next year’s VMAs will bring back a little of that chaos, that glorious, unpredictable mess. Maybe someone will wear a meat dress. Maybe someone will crash the stage. Maybe, just maybe, someone will remind us what it means to be truly, wildly, ambitiously alive.

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