What initially strikes me is her punctual arrival at the studios on the peripheries of Paris. In this business, questionable notions of time run amok in talented circles. Yet today, Doja Cat is a welcome anomaly – a notably bald breath of fresh air, despite the 8am call time. I had spent the morning remarking on the state of calm with the other crew members. The mood feels void of that particular foreboding that comes with the typical demands of celebrities. Though perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise, given that Doja has been riding a wave of success just lately that has seen her debut on the Coachella main stage, win her first Grammy and rack up multi-platinum records, all while perched on the Top 10 of the Billboard Hot 200 for six months with her third album, Planet Her – a first for any female rapper. Still, Doja Cat, whose name is an amalgamation of her favourite strain of weed (before relinquishing the habit) and her favourite animal (she has two oriental short-hairs called Ray and Alex), has spent the past year grappling with the media, whose headlines often cast a heavy shadow of doubt over her wellbeing.
In March this year, her performance at Asuncionico festival in Paraguay was cancelled due to stormy weather, and fans took to Twitter to voice their displeasure when Doja allegedly failed to show up to greet people camped outside her hotel. Her response to the furore marked the more sobering reality of the cult of celebrity and its demands: “i fuckin quit i can't wait to fucking disappear, and i don't need you to believe in me anymore,” she wrote. “Everything is dead to me, music is dead, and I'm a fucking fool for ever thinking i was made for this this is a fucking nightmare unfollow me.” A self-reflective apology soon followed, expressing gratitude and speaking to Doja's desire
