Uneven, sporadic, and totally erratic; an unfinished version of a potentially great album. Enjoyment and frustration abound in equal measure.
An ambitious, splintered record. Glammy schizoid pop rubs shoulders with tightly wound, rather despairing cud chewing, but the two styles never truly mesh.
Lover isn’t as expansive as Kate Bush or as daring as St. Vincent, but it is accessible and intelligent, which are the hallmarks of Swift at her best.