It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single Carly Rae Jepsen record must be in want of its other half. A year after the Canadian pop star released her breakthrough record, 2015’s E•MO•TION, she returned with E•MO•TION Side B. 2019’s Dedicated received similar treatment. By the time Jepsen released the companion album to 2022’s The Loneliest Time, the “surprise” drop hardly registered.

This brand of excess is key to Jepsen’s charm. Here is a singer who’ll repeat the word “really” six times in a row in a song’s chorus, just to make sure you really get the message; who claimed she wrote 200 songs for one 12-track record, then another hundred for her next one. Her latest album, Day and Night, tweaks her formula of abundance slightly, offering—in a CRJ first—a full double album upfront. As its title suggests, the record comprises two distinct themes: sweet, sunny tracks for Day; sleeker, dancier songs for Night. Working with a familiar stable of producers and co-writers, she turns out a sprawling album filled with loose, breezy tracks offset by the occasional pop gem and charming left-field details.

Day hews mostly to the windswept ballads and disco-inflected pop that Jepsen moved toward on her previous set of records: “After All” and “Something Tragic” are lightly psychedelic, her voice all breathy and urgent; there’s a little chillwave on “Habits of Creatures,” a little folk on “Wild Child.” Night is more strictly synth-pop: “Don’t Leave Me on the Dancefloor” is the cleanest ABBA homage she’s ever managed, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the ultra-yearning “That’s Just Me” as a deep-cut E•MO•TION castoff.

Day and Night’s sprawl is a double-edged sword. Though the production is usually layered and finely detailed, most songs don’t contain the razor-sharp hooks that usually make Jepsen’s work so indelible. In their absence, each side becomes a little unwieldy, and both Day and Night sag in their second halves. Only a fool would doubt that the prolific Jepsen could write 24 full tracks for a vaguely conceptual double album—but one wonders if a more focused, refined concept would better sustain its momentum.

But perhaps a pared-back version of this record wouldn’t allow for the strange, quasi-experimental detours that populate it. She sneaks in a few bars of understated bossa nova on Day’s closing track and a sitar-like solo toward the end of “Soft.” The clubby production in the middle stretch of Night is entrancing, and it’s exhilarating when she introduces delightfully discordant synth stabs on “Near or Far” and a quick, frenetic breakdown at the end of “Hold Me to the Light.” A decade ago, Jepsen’s main concern was hammering perfect ’80s synth-pop from a dozen different angles; Day and Night makes it clear she’s now reaching for new ambitions, with a broader, bolder palette.

For all this range, her lyrics are focused on core CRJ concerns: pining, lovesickness, crushes. Opener “After All” is an ode to domestic bliss, envisioning a life where all she needs is a “baby, one bedroom apartment/Daddy and me.” Then we’re off in a whirlwind of new love and memories thereof. Heartache is contained to a few tracks halfway through Day—“Wild Child” is about the inevitable pains of romance, while “Good Fine Alright” and “Something Tragic” wade through post-breakup blues—and after that, we scarcely hear of it again. Here, art reflects life: By the time she was making Day and Night in earnest, Jepsen was falling in love with her now-husband, musician Cole M.G.N., who’s also a producer on the album; by the time the record was being mixed, she was pregnant with her first child. As a result, the tracklist teems with songs about the ecstasy of fresh romance and the dream of turning infatuation into stability.

A couple times on the album, Jepsen directly confronts the question of what we inherit from our lineages. On “Motivation,” she ponders her identity inside and outside her family of origin. It’s a topic worthy of careful excavation, though she hits the chorus with all the depth of a throw pillow: “We go hard in this family/Tear it up in this family,” she sings assuredly over an aggressively cheery beat, “I’m in love with my family/We’ve got room for insanity.” On the meditative closing track “Super Sage,” she’s no less overt but a little more probing; when she sings, “I’m controlling like my mother/But I barely even touch her,” it’s an unexpectedly vulnerable admission in a song about the leap of faith required by commitment.

For all the record’s highs and lows, it’s touching that Jepsen's most wide-ranging, exploratory album comes at this transformative moment of married life and new motherhood. After all, what’s a greater experiment than making a promise of forever? What’s more psychedelic, more of a total immersion into the unexpected, than bringing new life into the world? In the video for “After All,” a very pregnant Jepsen dances around an apartment, eventually falling into the arms of a lover. It’s a little surreal, a little trippy, totally joyous—as if her contentment, rather than a source of stasis, is a portal into somewhere much wilder.