Can a Metallica-loving dad really appreciate a Taylor Swift mega show?

James Moore has been going to gigs for more than 30 years covering everything from indie to jazz, but has never witnessed a bona fide pop spectacle – until his daughter wanted to see the queen of pop, that is. But can he be converted?

I’ll give her this: she is a star. The moment she strode on to the stage in a pair of sparkly hot pants, the first of about 300 different costumes, you could see that. The audience was in raptures (Rex)

Three hours of Public Enemy: that’s what I got when I let my son have his choice of music in the car recently. Amid his vast collection of Pokemon trading cards is a set featuring the members of Queens of the Stone Age. And one of my favourite moments as a dad was his overjoyed reaction when I told him I’d got us tickets for Metallica. He’s a music-loving father’s dream.

But what’s good for the goose has to be good for the gander. Or the other way around. So when Taylor Swift announced that her reputation stadium tour was coming to Wembley, it was a case of fair’s fair. It was my daughter’s turn, even if it meant this Metallica Dad agreeing to a descent into musical purgatory on a Friday night instead of catching up with Game of Thrones.

Help!!!!!!

“On no, you’ll love it, you’ll have such a good time. I’m so jealous!”

That was the response of a shockingly large number of female friends and acquaintances, many of whom volunteered to accompany my seven-year-old daughter Rheya when I expressed trepidation at the prospect of an evening in the company of 100,000 screaming Swifties.

The diversity of those it came from took me aback: people I just couldn’t imagine would be fans were saying it.

There were culture vultures and rock fans. Twenty-somethings, thirty-somethings, and forty-somethings. Some with no children, others with a hatful, whose daughters, like mine, they were taking. I sometimes found myself saying, “what, you too?”

Taylor Swift seems to hold a good chunk of the female population in her thrall. And not a few men too. Quite an achievement for a onetime country singer.

It seems to be Swift’s particular way with words that has drawn them in. Nashville is renowned for its story tellers. But Swift’s stories have resonated with a far wider constituency than is usual for singers coming from out of that milieu.

James Moore finds he’s able to enjoy the show, albeit vicariously, with his daughter Rheya

At her Wembley show, she likened what she does to the opening up her diary. The chronicling of the ups and downs of her love life, her biting back at bad boyfriends, her reflection on experiences many of those who count themselves her fans will have had, speaks to them.

Selina Mills, a writer friend of mine, and one of those who had me saying “what you too?”, says she serves up “emotional truths” with that diary.

Another friend, Karen Attwood, who runs Nine Media Training, says: “She’s as good with an acoustic guitar as she is with a big pop anthem and I just love her lyrics. She is having a conversation; they’re gorgeous, often very funny and sarcastic.”

It never hurts if you can make ’em smile. Swift does it for her fans in the same way that a cutting rhyme from rapper Chuck D does it for me. Hey, whatever floats your boat.

The creation of the pop anthems Attwood references has been assisted via Swift’s collaboration with songwriters such as Max Martin, the Swedish savant who seems to have worked with just about every significant pop artist of the past two decades at some point.

But you do wonder whether she isn’t in danger of losing something with the sound she’s adopted these days, of sacrificing the connection she made with her lyrics.

There were enough huge snakes to send an ophidiophobic fan running for a therapist (PA)

Before taking the plunge, I decided I was going to have to try her music on for size – don’t let anyone tell you journalism isn’t painful at times – having first fortified myself with an evening in the company of Ice T’s Body Count: “The people have had enough. Right now, it’s them against us. This shit is ugly to the core. When it comes to the poor, no lives matter!” Now that’s the sort of the conversation I want to have.

Feeling suitably purged and, yes, a little self-righteous, I felt able to spend an afternoon in the company of Taylor. But after the first half hour I almost felt like saying “look what you made me do” to Rheya. And my editors, because I didn’t find listening to her latest missive any easier than her fans might find sampling Slayer.

It’s not that I can’t recognise a good pop song. Everyone has their guilty pleasures. But reputation’s hooks seemed swamped in a sea of expensive production. Here a backing singer trills, there a rapper rhymes, as the vocals tail off into electronic distortion. Meanwhile Swift reflects on the trials and tribulations not so much of being a teenager, but of being an uber-famous member of the 1 per cent, a bona fide mega star, with the requisite stable of hip hop style feuds.

1989, her first “official” pop record, I found more approachable, and memorable. I confess, I already had some familiarity with that album on account of indie troubadour Ryan Adams covering the whole thing. He somehow managed to put a wistful and melancholy sheen on an upbeat and feisty pop record, widely recognised as the highpoint of her career to date. Moving further back, Nashville becomes progressively more noticeable, and Swift’s stories more innocent and easier to hear.

But what about the show designed to showcase it all? If not the hottest ticket in town, it was certainly the priciest, part of an effort, it has been argued, to neutralise the scalpers who would have profited handsomely through gouging fans had Swift left money on the table.

I have to admit: a part of me was intrigued. I’ve been going to gigs for more than 30 years now (it makes me shudder to have to say that) and I’ve seen almost everything. Metal, indie, jazz, rap, soul, punk and more besides. I’ve been to decaying fleapit clubs, massive arenas, festivals and, yes, even great big stadia.

But what I’d never experienced before my evening with Swift was one those bona fide pop mega tours; the sort of thing featuring a cast of thousands, that takes several planes, and a fleet of trucks to move the thing from to venue to venue, and turns over the GDP of a small country.

It was a world apart from the stadium shows I’ve previously been to. The Stone Roses, for example, needed only their songs, together with the odd inflatable ball bouncing up and down in the crowd, to make for a thoroughly memorable occasion last summer, one worth the price of tickets that weren’t exactly cheap themselves.

A Swift show, by contrast, majors as much on spectacle as it does on music. There were, at Wembley, enough huge snakes to send an ophidiophobic fan running for a therapist. Apparently their presence stems from an insult the Kardashian married to Kanye West lobbed at her, and they’ve since become something of a trademark. One’s probably pending.

There was fire, and fireworks, and films. There was the obligatory army of dancers. Everyone was given a light bracelet on their way in, which seemed to change colours at the command of someone armed with an iPad backstage. The effect was actually rather pretty, if not exactly environmentally friendly.

There was even a sort of floating cage of lights to ferry Swift between the three (count ’em) stages and, at the end, a bloke whom I’m reliably informed was once in One Direction, came on to perform a duet. Neither me nor my daughter were quite sure who he was, although his presence seemed to delight the crowd.

As for Swift herself? Well, I’ll give her this. She is a star. The moment she strode on to the stage in a pair of sparkly hot pants, the first of about 300 different costumes, you could see that. The audience was in raptures.

She produced an acoustic guitar and just sang. She did the same with a piano later on. It worked too. Whatever Swift is, she is no manufactured talent (PA)

“Thank you for joining us on the reputation stadium tour,” she said. It was a line she repeated several times. I could almost hear the business manager whispering in her ear: “Don’t say anything that could be considered controversial, but make sure you reference the brand at least once every 15 minutes or so. It’s good for T-shirt sales.”

In the middle of this assault on the senses I was again left wondering whether Swift isn’t in danger of losing that connection she has forged. But then, about halfway through, with her occupying stage number two, she produced an acoustic guitar and just sang. She did the same with a piano later on. It worked too. Whatever Swift is, she is no manufactured talent, incapable of surviving without studio trickery, and solely reliant on others to play the instruments. It made me wonder if all the extra stuff was really necessary.

The reputation album may not have done the business 1989 did, and Swift may have strained her connection with some, but her still loyal fans lapped up everything she did.

Crucially, so did my daughter. All my criticisms started to pale before her sheer unabashed joy. It would have made any parent melt, and the zone of protection I thought I’d established by wearing my Metallica tour T-shirt, with a suitably gruesome design, was breached. In a world that seems to grow grimmer by the day, I couldn’t help but be uplifted at my child’s innocent delight. I even found myself enjoying myself, if vicariously.

Attwood says part of Swift’s appeal, as a parent, is that “among all the hyper sexualised pop stars she is a fantastic role model for my daughter”.

And I get that. Even though with all that branding it sometimes seems as if she’s as much CEO as she is musician, she is, to quote Janet Jackson, in control.

I don’t think Taylor will be troubling my speakers in future, but this Metallica Dad was able to make an accommodation with her.

There is a postscript that may amuse you. Since getting one of those Amazon Echo Dots, my chip-off-the-old-block son has been constantly playing what he tells me are Geometry Dash composers. They play electronic video game music that leaves me cold.

My daughter, meanwhile, has developed an obsession with Metallica’s Master of Puppets, to the extent that sometimes she’s even had me saying “can’t we have something else on?”.

It means I might have to enjoy our next live experience vicariously. Next time they tour she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be left out.