Stripped down, glammed up, and building her music empire
Bardot is up early, the beat from the club still thrumming behind her eyes. Two ibuprofen and a glass of orange juice later, she’s padding barefoot across her apartment—blonde hair twisted into a high ponytail, oversized tee hanging off one shoulder. The morning light catches stray flecks of glitter on her cheekbone, a souvenir from last night’s shift. She flips open her laptop at the kitchen counter, Spotify stats glowing on the screen, a list of song concepts half-typed beside them. I arrived a few minutes earlier, and I’m now perched on a bar stool nearby, watching her work. This is how she spends most mornings: answering DMs, plotting marketing moves, building her world brick by digital brick.
Some mornings, though, she’ll set the marketing aside and slip behind the mic, writing and recording while the energy of the club still lingers. “I know that marketing and engaging with people is the main thing I should be focusing on to build an audience,” she tells me between sips of coffee from her first cup that will eventually become five. As the hours pass, the oversized tee gives way to glamorous lashes, gloss, and a slicked-back bun.
First impressions: She strikes me as the type I would have partied with in high school—the kind of girl who’d climb out of her bedroom window after curfew, stilettos in hand, to meet me in the cul-de-sac with a pilfered bottle of Boone’s Farm and a devilish grin. Or some neon-lit club bathroom during college, half-laughing, half-whispering about the same man’s bedroom performance—comparing notes with wicked glee and zero shame, eyeliner smudged and hearts half-guarded.
When I ask what people tend to get wrong about her, Bardot pauses. She leans back in her chair, fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup. She’s thoughtful, though, choosing her words carefully.
“I think people generally think that music is a phase or something that I’m not taking that seriously,” she begins, voice steady but reflective. “It’s not super common where you witness someone chase their dreams a little bit later in their life rather than starting as a kid, but what people don’t know is that I’ve been studying the world of pop music for as long as I can remember.”
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, warming to the memory. “I grew up a performer, starting with dance in elementary school and then branching out into theatre, acting, and music. I consistently took voice lessons and acting classes to strengthen my craft as a performer.” A small laugh escapes. “However, I was always scared to fully dive into the world of pop music. Pop was too important to me. I idolized people like Britney Spears and Madonna. In a way, it felt like being a pop artist was too sacred for me to touch or chase after on my own, so I was always looking for avenues that were similar to it, but not quite the thing itself.”
She rests her elbow on the table, chin in hand now, gaze drifting for a beat. “I look at myself now and I realize my whole life has been leading up to this. In fact, I have to credit one of my best friends who knew how much this mattered to me and literally pushed me to write my record. They gave me a MIDI keyboard and their first guitar, taught me how to use Logic Pro, and helped me recognize the talent and potential I had. They knew that this was an endgame, it was written all over everything I said and did, but they just pushed me to let go and truly be happy.”
By early afternoon, the door swings open, and The Stuff Makers arrive—camera gear in tow, iced coffees in hand. They’re a scrappy crew of creatives Bardot calls her lifeline: shooting content, styling looks, helping her manifest LOVERGIRL into the visual fantasy it demands. “They’ve been helping me put it all together,” she says.
The living room becomes a set. Out come the rhinestone boots, the vintage sunglasses, the bodysuits. Bardot is in her element now, commanding the room one frame at a time. They shoot a reel for Play Girl, brainstorm visuals for her next single, and edit clips on the fly. It’s DIY pop stardom in action—scrappy, sweaty, driven. And I’m still there, notebook open, watching the hours dissolve into ring-light haze.
When I ask, When did you first realize you wanted to pursue a career as a pop singer — and what does that dream look like for you today? Bardot lights up. She shifts forward in her seat, resting her arms on the table, voice rising with the kind of energy that spills out when someone’s talking about their first love.
“I kid you not, I have always dreamt of this,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Growing up, my mom had a GIANT CD collection and stereo system in the living room. I would spend hours and hours just sitting on the floor and picking through all of her CD’s. I would flip through the booklets and read the lyrics, study the artwork and connect it to the music it was representing.”
She grins now, animated. “I remember being super young, I couldn’t have been more than around 6 or 7, and picking Madonna’s Ray Of Light from the collection. I remember looking at the album cover for the first time. The teal background with Madonna’s windswept reddish hair. I put the CD in the stereo system and put the headphones on. When the title track came on, it’s like something in me awakened. It was euphoric. I was obsessed. I remember playing that song over and over again while making up a music video in my head.”
She leans back, shaking her head a little, laughing. “I’ll be the first to admit, probably not the most age-appropriate artist for a kid to idolize, but she had me hooked. I started finding her music videos online and I was captivated by her sound and the way she expressed herself through music and visuals. Madonna was the moment I looked within myself and said, I want this too. I can do this too.“
“Stepping into the world of music was scary for me. It was my first love, but it terrified me,” the smile fades slightly, her voice softening. “My aunt has a PhD in Music Education and is a tenured professor at a University in California, but she was someone I idolized growing up as well. In a strange way, I was always scared of not being good enough. Of letting her down. I felt like it was too important to mess up.”
She explains how the lure of pop music was just too strong, “Pop music is and will always be the thing where I feel most comfortable living in and expressing myself through. It’s not just the music, but the world you build with it. My dream today looks like taking a concept and creating a whole sonic and visual world. I want to be able to create fantasies for people. A place for people to go to when they don’t know where else to turn to to release specific emotions or thoughts.”
Now her hands are moving as she talks, words flowing fast. “I want to entertain and to inspire; to move people through not just the music, but the art and visuals you can create with it. I want to connect with people who are moved through music and performance. To bring theatrics to live performances. I want to build an empire, but I want to do it in a way that shows other people that they can do it too. You can create something so beautiful with limited resources and income.”
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Later, we meet at an indie coffee shop tucked between a yoga studio and a piercing parlor. Bardot strides in ahead of me, all angles and attitude in a cropped black tee, low-rise jeans, and silver chains. Heads turn as she orders—people trying to place her. Pop star? Stripper? The joke’s on them. She’s both. She settles across from me, sunglasses perched on her head, eyes sharp with mischief. “Theatrics are everywhere,” she says, stirring oat milk into her latte. “In pop music, in the club—you’re building a world for people to step into, whether they’re buying a record or buying a dance.” Over the next hour, she holds court on female autonomy, the sacredness of pop, and the strange parallels between her two professions. “It’s all about control,” she says. “Taking ownership of how you’re seen. That’s where the power is.”
Like any good music journalist, I ask about her main influences.
“Oh my God—the Pop Divas,” she says instantly, leaning forward like she’s about to dish secrets to an old friend.
“I love the Pop Divas. Madonna, Britney Spears, Janet Jackson, Kylie Minogue… they made the music of my childhood.” She counts them off on her fingers as she speaks, animated now. “Britney was my first physical CD and my first concert. I looked up to these women because of how they owned their femininity and identity. They offered me an escape from the chaos of being a kid and figuring yourself out. They taught ME I could be anything I wanted to be. Their brands and identities were so inspiring.”
Bardot pauses for a beat, a smile lingering. “Honestly, it’s carried over into my adult life. I look at them now and how they owned their sexuality as women in a male dominated field. It’s bad ass and it’s incredible to witness.”
She sits back, more reflective now, voice softening with a kind of conviction. “As someone who works in a sexualized industry, they taught me that expression is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s something to be celebrated.” Her gaze sharpens a bit. “So as Bardot, I lean into that. I lean into sexuality. I lean into the branding and the concepts of the art I’m creating. I lean into aesthetics and themes because it helps build consistent worlds around the art that are cohesive and appealing; just like the ones I idolized and lived in growing up.”
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By 3 p.m., she’s in the club, her favorite pink two-piece and thigh-high pleasers completing the transformation. The stage is hers now: glitter, mirrors, beats. “I look at the club as a pop star boot camp,” Bardot says. “I spend my nights glammed out, persuading people to take a chance on me, and owning the stage I perform on.” She moves with the practiced grace of a dancer and the raw hunger of a rising star. In the blur of strobe lights and dollar bills, she’s studying the room, testing the same kind of audience connection that will power her future tours.
Bardot is a fantastic dancer, exactly what you’d expect from someone who studies the moves of Janet Jackson and Britney Spears! I catch up to her while she’s on break and almost have to shout over the music throbbing in the background. We’re tucked into a small side booth near the edge of the floor, mirrors catching flashes of neon. Bardot has a water bottle in one hand, a towel slung over her shoulders, glitter still catching the low light. Even offstage, she’s a magnetic presence—cool, confident, sharp-eyed.
I ask if she’s using her work in the club to bankroll her music career.
“Absolutely,” she says without hesitation, leaning in so I can hear her clearly. “I am very fortunate to have access to that industry in order to pay my bills and fund my dreams.”
When I ask how the experience has influenced her songwriting and stage presence, she loosens the towel, twisting it in her hands as she thinks.
“I’ll be so honest. I don’t know if I’d ever be making music publicly if it wasn’t for being an exotic dancer,” she says, voice steady. “The way it has taught me to be ok with how I’m observed or perceived gave me permission to be an artist and be myself. It reminded me of my stage presence and ability to connect with people. It was the solidification of understanding this is what I was meant to do.”
We’re interrupted briefly by a passing coworker who hugs her in greeting; Bardot smiles, waves, then turns back to me as I ask if her work in the club directly inspires themes in her music.
“Of course!” she says, eyes lighting up again. She leans forward on the table, voice picking up energy. “I love utilizing it and being transparent about it because to me, it’s performance. It’s a fantasy. It’s theatre. I look at the club as a pop star boot camp. I spend my nights glammed out, persuading people to take a chance on me, and owning the stage I perform on.”
She pauses for a sip of water, then adds, voice softening with nuance. “Not only that, but it allows me to be free with my body and sexuality. It’s forced me to truly be comfortable in front of people, and I think it’s one of the greatest blessings of my life.
With that being said,” she continues, tone more serious now, “I also do not want to glamorize the industry because although it has helped me tremendously, it is absolutely not a place for everyone. There is a dark side, and people view the environment in different ways, so it is a place where you must be cautious and look after yourself.”
I ask her what misconception about dancers she’d most like to correct through her music.
She exhales slowly, eyes meeting mine with quiet conviction. “That we’re people too. With families, fears, hopes, and dreams. We’re not objects. Yes, we work in a risque, sexual environment…but we’re performers. It’s artistic and it’s human.”
The discussion turns to topics of feminism, sexual autonomy, and liberation. The club setting seems like a natural place for this phase of our interview. The music had faded into a low pulse behind us; Bardot is leaning back in the booth now, one arm draped over the seat, water bottle balanced on her knee. The earlier edge of performance has softened into something more personal.
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“I think for a long time I thought being a person who owns their sexuality was something I didn’t feel I was deserving of,” she begins, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “I felt like it was something that people would view negatively.” She lifts her shoulders slightly, then lets them drop. “And let’s be honest, there are absolutely those who WILL view it negatively.”
She tips her head, gaze steady. “However, at this point in my life, I have learned just how natural and human it is. It’s a normal human desire that we all are wired to experience. I think living in a society where sex is looked down upon makes me sad.”
Her hands move now as she speaks, expressive. “I think there’s a balance between being a sexual person and still being respected that society has a hard time finding. But, this is why I bring this to my music and image as Bardot.”
“It’s not shameful. It’s powerful! There is a way to honor your sexuality as a human without it being crude or demoralizing. I think that’s the message I’m trying to spread. That you are able to express yourself in whatever way feels right TO YOU and as long as it does not physically harm somebody else.”
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Come 2 a.m., she’s home again—thigh highs by the door, a notebook full of lyric ideas in her lap, the hum of creativity too loud to sleep. She looks tired, despite the energy she’s still exhibiting. The eyes don’t lie. However, I’d like to delve a little deeper into her songwriting process.
She leans in, eyes wide, hands animated—this is clearly one of her favorite topics.
“I LOVE THIS QUESTION,” she says, practically bouncing in her seat. “I have always, always, always started with concepts and titles. These titles come to me as literal headlines of experiences I have gone through or can fantasize going through.”
She gestures toward her laptop on the table. “I keep a document on my computer of just random song titles. From there, the song sort of builds itself.”
Her voice softens slightly, becoming more thoughtful. “For example, my upcoming album LOVERGIRL literally started with its title and tracklist of songs that I hadn’t even written yet. Of course, some tracks were replaced with new tracks as I wrote the story, but I started with a concept and tracklist. From there, I analyze what the title is telling me, what the story could be, and how I envision it in my mind.”
She pauses for a breath, then leans in again, voice dropping a little as if sharing a secret. “There’s a song on this album called It Comes At Night, and when I thought of the title, I immediately started thinking about it sonically and lyrically. That title represented grief. It represented the dark. It represented the concept of night. The idea of being haunted and using demons as metaphors. So I asked myself, what does night sound like?“
Her fingers trace small circles on the table as she continues. “From there, came the chord progression and the lyrics that paints a story of keeping yourself busy during the day but the moment the lights go out and you have no distractions, the ghost of the person you lost shows up and haunts you.”
She sits back, grinning. “It’s important that I communicate a message with my music, not just create a catchy tune….which I’m also a sucker for.”
The vibe is more relaxed. Bardot is now stretched out on the couch, hoodie over shorts, hair piled on top of her head. The discussion turns to backlash – a thread that runs through everything she does. I ask if she’s faced criticism for blending a pop career with a sex-positive identity. She shakes her head. “I’m very lucky—my family and close circle get it,” she says. “But I know there will be backlash. Bardot is a pop star. She owns her sexuality and femininity. The people who need my music will find me.”
As for advice to young women navigating their own sexuality? “It’s a spectrum. You are not wrong or less than no matter where you land. It should be sacred to you—your choice.” When I ask about the line between empowerment and objectification, her voice sharpens. “It gets blurred. But YOU decide how you express yourself. You’re not the one objectifying.”
On the double standards in pop: “They expect women to be sexual—but then judge you for it. If you pull back, you’re boring. People need to let artists be who they are.” And feminism? No hesitation. “Of course. We are EQUAL. I want women to feel comfortable in their skin and know they are more than an object. They are human. Beautiful. Deserving.”
Bardot knows what she’s building: not just a record, but a world. A space where performance is empowerment, pop is both sacred and provocative, and a young woman can claim her own narrative—whether on a pole or a stage. “You learn people in this job,” she says. “You learn how to read a room very quickly and efficiently.” That skill seeps into her music: songs that seduce, challenge, and invite her listeners to do more than watch—feel.
