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.
Day and Night is a never-ending honeymoon as she saunters through a variety of serene tableaus, like the beach sway of “Blue Skies” or the opulent bacchanal that is “Versailles.” The latter track takes overt inspiration from Sofia Coppola’s 2006 film Marie Antoinette, as Jepsen beckons her love to engage in life’s vices with her, like marring bedsheets with fruit stains and dashing nude through the garden. The record was chiefly produced by Jepsen mainstay Kyle Shearer, who provides Day and Night‘s most danceable tracks, while Bullion, CJ Baran, Magnus Lidehäll, and more, make appearances too. Most notably, M.G.N. co-wrote and produced several songs, including the bubbly ode to family “Motivation” and “Just a Little Walk on the Moon,” which dabbles in bossa nova and acts as a fairytale closer to Day and Night’s first side.
With Jepsen, it’s all about love, all the time, from the dazzling highs to the devastating lows. To her, there’s no shame in airing out your baggage and confessing your feelings in a single song. Night closer “Super Sage” starts with Jepsen nervously pacing, worried she’s driving her lover to the brink as synths pile and pan like spiraling anxieties. Then suddenly, “Super Sage” rockets to the psychedelic-pop cosmos. The tempo picks up, synths undulate like a sine wave, and it all mimics that rush of heat one feels when they’re about to confess everything. Despite the Edenic imagery painted throughout Day and Night, Jepsen’s repeated gasps of “I love you” make for the album’s most romantic and vulnerable moment, full of stark intensity. Seven years ago, on Dedicated‘s “Real Love,” Jepsen screamed to the clouds about wanting genuine connection. On Day and Night, it sounds like she’s found it.
Elliott Smith in 2003.
Why Is Everyone So Mad at Supreme’s Elliott Smith Collaboration?
Earlier this week, Supreme announced an Elliott Smith capsule collection, including a selection of jackets and T-shirts featuring artwork from across the late musician’s career, from his self-titled 1995 album to his seminal 1997 album Either/Or to 1998’s XO and 2000’s Figure 8.
The internet seems to be in a huff over this, relying on a view of Supreme and streetwear frozen in 2008 that was, even then, embarrassingly myopic. The line of thinking goes that Supreme, the brand that was founded in New York in 1994 by designer James Jebbia and that has been a staple in skate and streetwear culture ever since, is an inauthentic purveyor of the ethos represented by Smith and his music. One might cite the brand’s roughly $500 million investment from the Carlyle Group in 2017 or its association with high fashion as disqualifying characteristics. More than anything, there seems to be a sense that taking shots at a nearly 40-year-old streetwear institution is a way to prove one’s unsullied dedication to a sense of anti-consumerism. The anger is misplaced.
In a culture awash in goofy collaborations and corporate cash grabs, Supreme might be one of the few brands still operating from an actual set of beliefs. Its Elliott Smith capsule (which was made with permission from Smith’s estate) is in a long line of collaborations that Supreme has done with musicians. Its first artist collaborator was Rammellzee, the experimental rapper and visual artist whose relationship with the brand dates to 1994, the year Supreme opened. By 2005, Raekwon was posing with a Tickle Me Elmo for the first of Supreme’s commissioned portrait T-shirts. Across its music collaborations, portrait tees, and tributes, the list includes everyone from Michael Jackson to the Velvet Underground, Nirvana, Butthole Surfers, My Bloody Valentine, Daniel Johnston, Aphex Twin, and SALEM.
There have been collections with record labels like Stax, Wackies, Rap-A-Lot, Ruff Ryders, Jah Life, and Duck Down, the last of which put Black Moon and Smif-N-Wessun’s album artwork on clothes. There are shirts and shoes with Peter Saville’s artwork for Joy Division and New Order. The Smith collaboration is so patently in the wheelhouse of what the brand has done for decades that bringing it up now as some sort of “gotcha!” feels more like a product of social media’s tilt towards rage-bait than any defense of an artist.
Elliott Smith, who died in 2003 at 34, has long been a part of skate culture. He was friends with Mike Mills, the skateboarder and filmmaker who designed graphics for Stereo and one of Supreme’s early logos. Mills worked on unused cover art for Figure 8 and later enlisted Smith to record music for his film Thumbsucker. And Smith’s music has been celebrated in the world of skateboarding for many years now. Mark Baines skated to “Happiness” in Blueprint’s Waiting for the World in 2000. Nate Broussard used “A Distorted Reality Is Now a Necessity to Be Free” in Static III in 2007. Dylan Rieder skated to “Coast to Coast” in Alien Workshop’s Mind Field in 2009, and Mark Suciu used “Junk Bond Trader” in Cross Continental in 2012.
Arguing that he would have hated the collaboration, aside from being infantilizing, completely ignores the actual culture around Elliott Smith when he was alive, instead opting for some abstract representation of a person who actually existed in the real world — a particularly Gen Z problem, to be frank.
With these collaborations, estates and relevant parties are always compensated. And that actually matters in an era where an artist can remain a staple for young people for generations, long after they’ve died, while reaping diminishing returns thanks to the paltry payouts from streamers. Meaning, short of throwing him onstage as a hologram or doling out money-grabbing box sets, a tasteful collection with a brand with a real connection to his work is actually one of the better options that exists.
People who want to be mad at Supreme want to separate themselves from some sort of mainstream idea of cool. They want to believe that they have an authenticity that Supreme doesn’t. Sorry to say, the reverse is more likely true. Just last week, Business of Fashion published a report on the brand’s cultural durability. “Supreme isn’t cool anymore” is, in fact, a very uncool thing to say in 2026. And beyond that, the people inside the company are coming from an ethos that has remained steadfast in actually supporting youth culture.
To sit on the outside now and pretend that you’re such an authentic Elliott Smith fan that you’re upset by this is simply to expose how out of touch you are.