Jaeden Pinder
Contact Jaeden Pinder by Email View all posts by Jaeden Pinder September 14, 2026
Vince Aung* In certain corners of the internet, Carly Rae Jepsen is not just the woman behind the immortal 2011 hit “Call Me Maybe,” but a bard of pop excellence. Her fans will say she has penned at least five of the century’s best pop songs (though no one can agree on which). She is considered the Canadian equivalent to the Down Under disco queen Kylie Minogue by some, and recalls a young Taylor Swift for her unabashed earnestness. Across her vast discography, she writes, almost exclusively, about this crazy little thing called love, delivering endearing declarations of running away together and bold breakup anthems in her syrupy-sweet voice.
Jepsen’s instinct to follow her heart, whether it’s toward new love or to experiment with an untouched genre, has always been her greatest asset. Her latest record Day and Night isn’t just a double album; it’s also a travelogue — musically and lyrically — of love, some of which is inspired by her romance with producer Cole M.G.N., whom she married last year. From cotton-candy afternoons flecked with Balearic influence to two-stepping sunset soirees and blissed-out bossa-nova confessionals under a twilight sky, it’s Jepsen’s most experimental and exhilarating work, and she makes falling in love feel brand-new all over again.
The Day side of the album draws from silky genres like dream pop and folk pop, where she sounds like she’s on cloud nine. The nu-disco “Habits of Creatures” establishes Jepsen’s desire for stability (“Gimme some more of the same,” she sighs as the synths, which mimic a familiar Todd Terje track, pirouette toward the heavens), and on “Soft,” she lets her guard down and twirls into her lover’s arms. Night jets off to clubs across the globe, where she gets more direct with her desires. There’s the deep house “Near or Far,” the sexy, sample-heavy “Never Let a Good Thing Die,” and a whole lot of disco (this is a Carly Rae Jepsen album, after all). “Don’t Leave Me on the Dance Floor” is a sing-so-hard-you-cry proclamation, where each repeat of the song’s title, from sky-high shouts to cellophane-thin coos, feels like the difference between life and death. “Don’t leave me in the dark to face another song alone,” she beckons to her lover on the metallic chorus, concurrently recalling French touch and ABBA.
