The North Country’s Entertainment Magazine
The North Country’s Entertainment Magazine
There’s no easy way to talk about Taylor Swift without someone lighting a candle in her honor or lighting you on fire for even questioning her. She is an empire, an institution, and a lyrical surgeon. But even empires have fine print, and right now that fine print is spelled i-n-t-e-r-p-o-l-a-t-i-o-n.
If you just blinked at that word like a high schooler pretending to understand calculus, you are not alone. Interpolation is the lesser-known cousin of sampling. It happens when an artist re-records or re-creates a melody, lyric, or hook from an existing song rather than lifting the original recording. It is a creative homage when permission and payment are involved. When they are not, it is the musical equivalent of leaving your neighbor’s house with their couch and claiming you just redecorated.
So when Ophelia dropped, somewhere around the thirty-second mark, my brain started screaming like a radio host with a red flag hotline. I had heard that melody before. It was not déjà vu, it was Summertime Sadness, Lana Del Rey’s foggy, cinematic ghost drifting through Taylor’s golden haze. I did what any self-respecting Swiftie and music nerd would do. I spiraled into a research hole and ended up on There I Ruined It, the Instagram account that hears what the rest of us cannot unhear. They had clocked it too, and a few other inspirations for good measure.
Before anyone comes for me with pitchforks and friendship bracelets, I am not here to crucify Taylor. I am here to talk about the system. Interpolation is not a new trick. It has been around since long before
Autotune and Tik Tok dance trends. The real question is when does homage cross into infringement, and why does it only seem to matter when it is the little guys doing it?
When a small indie band gets accused of borrowing a chord progression, they are slapped with a lawsuit that drains every cent they have ever made selling CDs out of their van. When a superstar borrows from a smaller act, it is suddenly called influence, evolution, or shared creative language. It is a fascinating double standard wrapped in a glittered PR statement.
And the irony? Taylor knows better. On another track, Father Figure, she actually requested permission from George Michael’s estate to use interpolation. That is a textbook, that is ethical, that is professional. The reason estates are so protective is simple. Dead artists cannot sue, but their intellectual property can still make money. When you get permission, everyone wins. When you do not well, cue the lawyers.
So what happened here? In her promo interviews, Taylor said she reunited with Shellback and Max Martin, her old hit-making dream team, and that they had all learned new things. Cute sentiment. But if those new things sound suspiciously like Lana Del Rey’s old things, we might have a conversation worth having. Especially when the songwriting credits, list only Taylor, Max, and Shellback. None of the other names attached to the songs that appear to have inspired these melodies.
If you can get clearance for Father Figure; why not Ophelia? Was it an oversight, a gamble, or a quiet assumption that no one would call out the resemblance?
This is not about tearing down Taylor. It is about the blurry gray zone between inspiration and imitation. Fans deserve transparency. Artists deserve protection. And the industry desperately needs a reality check on who gets crucified and who gets canonized. Because if interpolation without consent becomes the norm, the creative middle class, the bands from Northern New York to Nashville, will pay the price long before billion-dollar pop factories ever feel the heat.
To understand how we got here, let’s clear the smoke machine and talk about technicalities. Sampling is when you take a literal piece of the original recording, those exact vocals, that guitar lick, that beat, and drop it into your own track. It is borrowing sound. Interpolation is when you re-create that sound yourself. You do not take the recording; you just imitate it, same melody, different mic. Think of it as musical method acting. Both require permission. The only difference is what happens when you do not ask first.
In 1990, Vanilla Ice released Ice Ice Baby, which famously lifted the bassline from Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie. His defense was that the bassline was slightly different. The world laughed, the lawyers did not, and a quiet settlement ensured that Queen and Bowie got their due. There is a difference between being inspired and being inspired to open your wallet.
Fast-forward to 2015. Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke and Pharrell was not a sample, it was an interpolation inspired by Marvin Gaye’s Got to Give It Up. Thicke and Pharrell argued it was only a vibe, not a copy. The court disagreed. The Gaye estate walked away with five million dollars and a reminder that vibes can still cost you your vacation home.
Jump to Gen Z. In 2021, fans noticed Good 4 U by Olivia Rodrigo sounded eerily similar to Misery Business by Paramore. No lawsuits were filed, just an after-the-fact songwriting credit. A PR move? Probably, A lesson in modern copyright ethics? Absolutely. Rodrigo handled it smartly, even if it meant retroactively slicing her royalty pie.
Interpolation can be a love letter or a lawsuit. The only difference is the envelope it comes in, and whether the check clears before the lawyers get there.
So yes, I am still a Swiftie. I will still scream-sing All Too Well with a red scarf around my neck and too much Cabernet in my bloodstream. But as someone who has spent over two decades in this industry, I cannot ignore the hypocrisy. If we are going to live in a world where AI has to disclose its sources, maybe music should too.
Because maybe the real love story here is not between Taylor and her muses. It is between art and accountability.
Christine Collins is a 23 year veteran music industry professional specializing in venue management, branding, marketing and public relations. She currently resides in northern New York, and hosts the “Who is Christine Anyway?” podcast, and works as an author, publicist, and marketing strategist in music. Her origin story begins in the modest walls of the Saranac Lake Youth Center, and has led her to work amongst the nation’s top artists, venues, and brands.
