It was highly tempting to title this review of Taylor Swift’s new album “The Tortured Poets Department” something along the lines of “RedState Listens To The New Taylor Swift Album So You Won’t Have To.” However, snide cheap shots are just that; snide and cheap. Like it or not — for that matter, whether one likes Taylor Swift or not — she is the unquestioned queen of pop music. Swift enjoys a massive, fervent to the point of frenzied fan base that obsesses over her every lyric and moment in the public eye. A new album by her is not something to lightly dismiss.

The album has two editions, one coming in at 16 songs while the deluxe version clocks in at a massive 31 tunes spread out over two hours plus. In this it is an impressive body of work, especially given how Swift has devoted much time the past several months to a mammoth globe-spanning tour filling football stadiums wherever she goes. Say what you will, but Swift gives her fans what they crave in spades.

Musically, the album works well within its self-limited parameters. Taylor has a strong affinity for mid-tempo, vaguely atmospheric pop and does it quite well. She does it so well that one can almost forgive how it does not take long for one song to blur into the next. The album somehow manages to be simultaneously catchy and unmemorable, replete with moments of thinking that’s nice, but I’ve heard it already on this album, let alone Swift’s previous pop output with occasional nods to her country beginnings. It is highly listenable in small doses, but sitting through all 31 tracks in one sitting is asking a lot of even the most passionate Swiftie.

Lyrically is where the album falls dreadfully short. It is individually and collectively a clusterclunk of awkward phrasing, lazy profanity, and an overriding theme of whiny teen angst expected from a 15-year-old girl but embarrassingly unbecoming a 34-year-old woman. Swift beats the “my ex is a jerk” theme to death in song after song, often devolving into overreaching, inane attempts at high art that instead come off as low comedy. An example:

Oh, here we go again
The voices in his head
Called the rain to end our days of wild
The sickest army doll
Purchased at the mall
Rivulets descend my plastic smile

Bob Dylan will be losing no sleep tonight.

If the album’s lyrics accurately depict Swift’s mindset, she desperately needs Jesus and a puppy. When someone’s every relationship fails, self-reflection suggests itself. One should focus on why he or she insists on repeating the same mistakes. Yes, it does not always take two to tear things apart. But if you are perpetually nursing a broken heart as you careen from one car crash of a relationship to the next, maybe you play a more significant role in the carnage than for which you refuse to give yourself credit.

The phenomenon of Swifties and their sheer numbers amplifies this disturbing void of self-reflection. An impressionable girl’s heroine offering nothing besides incessant whining and decrying their miserable lot in life because today’s latest and greatest love is guaranteed to be tomorrow’s late and not-so-great former love is a dangerous influence. How can such a self-nihilistic worldview do anything other than reinforce the legitimacy of youth, who already believe their perception and presumptions equal reality and experience, concluding that there is no hope? We live in a society that has declared open warfare on women. Swift’s offering of friendly fire is not helping.

Swift is pop’s sullen Peter Pan, forever refusing to grow up. Regrettably, she is bringing a massive audience along for the ride. Artistically, “The Tortured Poets Department” is not bereft of value. Its fatal flaw is in offering no hope for the brokenhearted. And there is, indeed, hope.