Stretching Pop to Its Limits: Carly Rae Jepsen’s E•MO•TION at 10

In the summer of 2015, Carly Rae Jepsen was trying to imagine what pop could be next. “My desire now,” she said in an interview, “is to see how far I can stretch pop.” It was a modest statement from someone whose voice had already circled the globe on “Call Me Maybe,” but it hinted at an ambition deeper than virality. Jepsen was no longer content to be a fluke phenomenon with an irresistibly chipper hook; she wanted to make something lasting, something that could feel both nostalgic and new.

Her previous record, Kiss, had been full of pleasant-enough charm, anchored by one of the biggest hits of the 2010s. But with E•mo•tion, Jepsen rebuilt her world around a different palette: bright synths, gated drums, smeared neon saxophones—pop filtered through the soft focus of the 1980s, reborn for the Tumblr generation. Back then, that retro shimmer still felt daring. Long before nostalgia became the default aesthetic of pop, E•mo•tion treated the past like raw material for reinvention.

Ten years later, the album has returned as a deluxe anniversary edition, a celebration of a record that has only grown more beloved. E•mo•tion was, and remains, a defiant act of pleasure—no irony, no apology. Jepsen dismissed the idea of the “guilty pleasure” and made a record that takes joy seriously: fizzy, maximalist, unafraid of sincerity. Its songs are bulletproof constructions of feeling—“Run Away With Me,” a fireworks display of devotion; “Boy Problems,” a fluorescent friendship anthem; “All That,” a gauzy ballad of restraint and ache. Every hook feels immediate, every lyric borders on absurdity, yet Jepsen delivers them all with unshakable conviction.

Jepsen has always been pop’s great romantic realist. Her lyrics dwell in the gray areas—half-crushes, almost-love, delayed heartbreak—and her performances never flinch from the awkwardness of wanting too much. “Your Type” aches with one-sided desire; “Gimmie Love” is practically begging. She sings about the messy, human craving to be chosen, to be seen, to keep trying even when it’s hopeless. And somehow, that persistence sounds ecstatic. Even when she rasped up her voice for “Your Type” by reportedly vaping for a week straight, the sweetness still cut through. It’s that combination—giddy and vulnerable—that turned E•mo•tion into something singular: a pop record that blushes as it beams.

The new edition of E•mo•tion packages the original 11 songs with a treasure chest of extras: alternate mixes, old B-sides, and “Cut to the Feeling,” Jepsen’s most explosive hit-that-wasn’t, rescued from an animated film soundtrack. The additions expand her world rather than clutter it. Two new “Run Away With Me” remixes—from Kyle Shearer and Rostam—stretch its joyous sprint into new textures, while four previously unreleased tracks reveal the depths of Jepsen’s process. It’s almost mythic now: the 200 songs she reportedly wrote for E•mo•tion, most of which never saw daylight. Hearing “More,” “Guardian Angel,” and “Back of My Heart,” it’s easy to see why—they’re charming but lack the gleam of the chosen few. Still, they show the relentless pursuit behind the perfection.

That pursuit defined the E•mo•tion sessions. Jepsen didn’t chase chart alchemy with Max Martin or Jack Antonoff, even though she could have. Instead, she gravitated toward collaborators like Dev Hynes, Rostam Batmanglij, and Ariel Rechtshaid—producers known for crafting pop with an experimental, human touch. Together they carved a sound that bridged the radio and the blogosphere: an album with commercial shine but indie bones. Her manager, Scooter Braun, called the goal “a critically acclaimed album,” not another global hit. And that’s exactly what she got—a pop record that critics could love without caveat, a bright pink Trojan horse for sincerity in an age of irony.

In 2015, E•mo•tion arrived during poptimism’s golden hour. The idea that pop could be serious art was still fresh, still debated, still exhilarating. Critics and fans alike rallied around Jepsen as a kind of avatar for this new openness. She wasn’t cynical, or hyper-self-aware, or pushing scandal as her brand. Instead, she was the earnest underdog—crafting perfect pop songs for their own sake, unburdened by pretense. This wasn’t the cold precision of 1989, but something warmer, smaller, more personal. She wasn’t rewriting the rules of pop so much as quietly perfecting them.

E•mo•tion didn’t make Jepsen a global superstar. It peaked at No. 16 on the Billboard charts, and “I Really Like You” was her last single to make the Hot 100. But its impact radiated differently—through word-of-mouth devotion, through queer dance floors and bedroom speakers, through the kind of cult fandom that doesn’t fade. In an era when success is measured in streams and spectacle, Jepsen built something more enduring: a career sustained by love.

Over the next decade, she became a model for a new kind of pop artist—the patron saint of pop’s middle class, thriving outside the mainstream glare. She could headline festivals, inspire fan memes, and quietly release records that critics adored. Her audience didn’t need her to chase virality again; they just wanted her to keep feeling things out loud. E•mo•tion gave her that freedom.

Listening to the album today, it feels timeless—not prophetic, not retro, just perfectly itself. You can hear traces of it everywhere, from bedroom synth-pop to the resurgence of earnest disco. But few have captured its particular lightness, its commitment to the rush of feeling over the logic of form. E•mo•tion remains an ode to pop as an emotional experiment, as something that can stretch without breaking.

Ten years on, it’s clear that Jepsen did stretch pop—not by breaking its rules, but by taking them seriously enough to make them sing again. What she made wasn’t just a great pop record. It was an argument for joy, and for the belief that joy, like any other emotion, is worth working for.