This article originally appeared on i-D UK.
Carly Rae Jepsen is climbing on the rim of a bathtub. Thankfully, she’s taken off her white Chanel boots, purchased the last time she was in Paris, but it does all seem a bit precarious. “Don’t worry,” she shouts, clearly sensing my rising concern, “I’ve actually recently taken up rock climbing.”
While I’m not sure this new hobby necessarily makes anyone more equipped for this sort of thing, Carly is on the bathtub because she’s having her picture taken and, according to the photographer, the lighting in the bathroom was better than that in the hotel room that we’ve been sat in. And actually, wearing a white dress with coloured stripes, her hair recently dyed blonde, she does look resplendent balancing on that tub, like an angel or nymph ready to jump in and save us all.
Indeed, if you were to take a closer into the faction of Twitter that obsesses over pop music, dubbing Carly Rae Jepsen a saviour is not uncommon. For the past four years, she has taken on an almost mythical stature among pop music lovers, a beacon of hope – nay, of taste! – as trop-pop monstrosities, anonymous dance collabs, algorithmic streaming chasers, and Drake began to infect the upper echelons of the charts. Pop music in its purest form was pushed underground as even its leaders defected for jazz albums. Like a secret religion, pop fans congregated on Twitter to discuss their faves, and listened to sermons from their holy book: Carly Rae Jepsen’s 2015 album E•MO•TION. Like a messiah, she was here to save pop.