Olivia Rodrigo
THE AIR IS MUSTY, BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER IS playing on an ancient TV by the door, and Olivia Rodrigo is flipping through racks of slip dresses and flared pants. “What’s your style?” she asks. I tell her, unhelpfully, that I’m looking for something I might actually wear. She nods and says, “Vibes.”
We’re at a vintage shop in East Los Angeles, one the 18-year-old singer-songwriter frequented while working on her debut album, Sour. She was out late last night at the American Music Awards, but she’s moving so quickly this morning you’d never guess. She’s using one hand to browse, the other to grip a matcha latte, and somehow, without my noticing, has managed to collect at least five pieces under her elbow.
She suggests, for me, a T-shirt reading #1 MOM. I explain why I can’t take it home: once you’re in your 30s, there’s no room for irony about motherhood. Instead, the winner is a baby blue tee with a spy plane on it. “It’s soft,” she says, handing it my way. I can’t describe why it’s cool. It just is.
Rodrigo has a gift for picking the best of the past—whether a well-worn shirt, the faded feedback of a guitar or the intensity of first love—and finding just the right’s opening track, “Brutal,” she rants, “And I’m not cool and I’m not smart/ And I can’t even parallel park.” It’s teen angst, delivered with a wink.
