Republicans and Democrats have long fought over the Black vote, the evangelical vote, and the middle-class vote. But recently they’ve been warring over the Swiftie vote. A few weeks ago, on Truth Social, Donald Trump shared a series of images: a crowd of young women wearing “Swifties for Trump” T-shirts, and Taylor Swift dressed up as Uncle Sam, with the slogan “Taylor Wants You to Vote for Donald Trump.” These pictures were generated by A.I., but Trump captioned the post as if they were an official endorsement: “I accept!” Then, last week, more than thirty-four thousand people joined a “Swifties for Kamala” organizing call. Senator Ed Markey said that his favorite Swift song is “Snow on the Beach,” because it emphasizes the threat of climate change. (In fact, the lyrics describe such snow as “fuckin’ beautiful.”)

Swift has not endorsed either Trump or Kamala Harris, but the question of whether she will has become a subplot in an election seemingly so tight that something as small as the right endorsement—or the wrong meme—threatens to shift the balance. Speculation only intensified after the Democratic National Convention, which featured stars such as Oprah Winfrey and Lil Jon. It was rumored that Beyoncé would appear as a surprise guest; online betting odds shot up after the White House political director tweeted a bee emoji. Ultimately, she showed up only over the loudspeakers—Harris’s campaign anthem is the Beyoncé song “Freedom.” Some viewers felt misled: had the rumors been stoked to increase ratings? Still, their believability was itself a kind of endorsement.

Celebrities can generate enthusiasm for a candidate, but, generally speaking, it’s hard to quantify their effect on the final vote. The exception is Oprah. In the lead-up to the 2008 Democratic primaries, she endorsed Barack Obama. It was the first time she endorsed a candidate; she was a registered Independent, and had always maintained a nonpartisan air. Later, economists at Northwestern and at the University of Maryland estimated that she was responsible for more than a million of Obama’s votes. After Obama won the nomination, Beyoncé, too, came out in support of him, as did LeBron James, who had stayed quiet about politics up until that point. (As Michael Jordan once said, “Republicans buy sneakers, too.”) John McCain, the Republican candidate, ran a commercial that showed thousands of people cheering Obama’s name, intercut with pictures of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears. “He’s the biggest celebrity in the world,” a voice-over said. “But is he ready to lead?” Apparently, it was an attack ad.

Many of Obama’s celebrity backers endorsed Hillary Clinton in 2016, but election analysts later argued that this may have been counterproductive, contributing to a sense that the candidate was élitist. Donald Trump, a celebrity himself, seemed to be running a kind of anti-celebrity campaign, goading celebrities into speaking out against him. (After he declared that the supermodel Heidi Klum was “no longer a ten,” she shared her thoughts on the election: “May the best woman win.”) The Rolling Stones told Trump not to play their songs at his rallies. But, during the balloon drop at the R.N.C., he played “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” turning what would normally be a unifying moment into a troll.

Swift did not endorse anyone in 2016, and later told Vogue that Trump “was weaponizing the idea of the celebrity endorsement.” As a result, she said, “I just knew I wasn’t going to help.” Ironically, Swift may have been in a better position to help Clinton than Beyoncé or Oprah or James, all of whom endorsed her. While the others had come to be seen as cultural avatars for the Democrats, Swift’s political views were largely unknown; some speculated that she was a Republican. Alyssa Cass, the chief strategist for Blueprint, a Democratic public-opinion research firm, said that, particularly in the case of younger undecided voters, “someone who feels apolitical feels like a more trusted authority.”

Now that apolitical celebrities are a rarity, it’s possible that celebrity endorsements are losing their potency as they lose their power to surprise. Swift endorsed Biden and Harris in 2020, and later accused Trump of “stoking the fires of white supremacy.” Harris should already have clinched the Swiftie vote. What Swift has to offer, at this point, is an aura of cool. This, Cass said, is the real function of celebrity endorsements: “It’s like a coolness permission structure.”

Coolness has long been relevant to Presidential elections. Ronald Reagan, a former actor, easily bested Jimmy Carter, who couldn’t even go fishing without being attacked by a swamp rabbit. Was it the Willie Horton ad that sealed George H. W. Bush’s victory over Michael Dukakis, in 1988, or was it that ridiculous photo of Dukakis in a tank? Bill Clinton played the sax. Obama was good at basketball. Trump’s 2016 victory might have been largely a rebuttal of a Salon article from that year: “It’s hip to be square: Hillary Clinton isn’t cool—and she shouldn’t have to be.”

If coolness is the goal, then the most effective celebrity endorsements are arguably the ones that speak to a candidate’s vibes. When Johnny Rotten, of the Sex Pistols, was photographed wearing a MAGA T-shirt, the message—which may have resonated more than any policy proposal—was that supporting Trump was punk. The most important celebrity endorsement that Harris has received was not a real endorsement at all: it was the pop star Charli XCX tweeting, apparently on a whim, that “kamala IS brat.”

Trump has been struggling to make MAGA punk again. He has tried cultivating relationships with streamers and comedians such as Adin Ross and Theo Von, and with rappers who, like him, face criminal charges. He regained some cultural capital in July, when a would-be assassin shot him at a rally, and he pumped his fist and shouted “Fight!” At the R.N.C., two days later, it was rumored that 50 Cent was going to perform his track “Many Men (Wish Death).” The actual surprise guest was Kid Rock, singing “American Bad Ass.” (Later, Trump assured the crowd of Kid Rock’s clout: “I didn’t even know how big he was. . . . Thirty-five, forty thousand people he gets, every time he goes out.”)

It’s doubtful that Kid Rock has much power to sway. This past spring, Cass’s firm conducted a poll, asking young voters which celebrities were most likely to influence their vote. Swift and Beyoncé were relatively high on the list, though they were beat out by stars such as Kevin Hart and Timothée Chalamet. The celebrity with the most influence? Zendaya, at twenty-four per cent. She has not yet endorsed a candidate—but she’s known to be a big Beyoncé fan. ♦