Katy Perry has been glitching on stage like a broken animatronic at Chuck-E-Cheese.

Her recent tour showcases exceptional choreography—like fighting an air conditioning duct with a lightsaber. Her dancing is so bad she’s resorted to just running in circles. If you can call this twerking, then sure. That’s what she’s doing.

This is an extreme fall from grace for the candy-coated pop star who once ruled entertainment. Her music dominated every award show, every radio station, every teenager’s headphones. She was bold, confident, rebellious. Everything the 2010s told young women to be.

But somewhere along the way, the persona started cracking.

Her image was built on female self-expression. Then fans found out it was nothing more than a brand carefully crafted by a man who had serious allegations from another beloved pop star. Katy didn’t denounce him. She embraced him.

Today, she’s not just being laughed at for weak performances. Her entire manufactured persona is being dismantled.

From the very beginning, Perry did whatever she could to pander to the masses. Starting with going against her own religious values for a shot at fame. The “selling your soul” trope is a tired Hollywood conspiracy—but for Katy Perry, it’s different. She literally started as a gospel singer, then admitted she sold her soul when her career wasn’t working out.

“I swore I wanted to be like the Amy Grant of music,” she said. “But it didn’t work out. So I sold my soul to the devil.”

Perry was raised by Pentecostal pastors in a traveling religious family. The only music on the menu was gospel standards—”Oh Happy Day,” “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” “Amazing Grace,” all eight verses. “So the New Kids on the Block are new to me now,” she said. “They’re not a comeback. I’m like, oh, this is a cool song.”

She dedicated her free time to songwriting and guitar. She traveled to Nashville, recorded demos, caught the attention of Red Hill Records, and released her debut album at sixteen. Gospel music’s religious themes don’t align with mainstream pop culture. Poor commercial sales followed. The label shut down.

She had two options: stay true to her values and pursue gospel with no promise of money or fame, or go against everything she believed and become a pop sensation.

She chose the latter. Moved to California. Admitted it changed her.

She signed with Capitol Records and released “I Kissed a Girl”—a provocative anthem about a young woman experimenting with her sexuality. She was anxious, not because she doubted its success, but because it violated her religious values. She didn’t know how it would affect her family. She convinced her sister to break the news to her Pentecostal parents. They weren’t mad—just concerned she was losing her way.

On the “Call Her Daddy” podcast, Perry explained she wasn’t rejecting her parents’ values. She was discovering the world was a mixed bag. “I met different people and I’m like, oh, you’re not a bad person. I grew up thinking you were this way. I was taught this way. So I saw more humanity.”

Her values changed overnight.

If she can shift her worldview that fast, what’s stopping her from changing whenever a new opportunity arises? That shapeshifting would ultimately become the demise of her career.

But first, her deal with the devil paid off.

“One of the Boys” placed a spotlight on her budding career. “Teenage Dream” established her as a dominant force. The project produced a record-tying five number one singles on the Billboard Hot 100—”California Gurls,” “Teenage Dream,” “Firework,” “E.T.,” and “Last Friday Night.” She became the first woman in history to achieve that feat.

The album earned seven Grammy nominations, including Album of the Year. It didn’t just top charts—it became the soundtrack of a generation. Her music pumped through county fairs, amusement parks, restaurants. You couldn’t walk outside or turn on the radio without hearing her latest hit.

Her world tour earned $59.5 million globally. In 2012, Billboard named her Woman of the Year. She was celebrated as a girlboss feminist icon simply for being a successful woman who embraced her sexuality on stage. Back then, feminism in pop culture didn’t require deep political activism. Being confident, glamorous, and in control was enough.

By today’s standards, that version of feminism is surface-level. Which might explain why her next album, “Prism,” contained more girlboss undertones. It paid off. “Roar” debuted at number one and became one of her best-selling singles. “Unconditionally” and “Dark Horse” were inescapable.

The Prismatic World Tour earned nearly quadruple its predecessor. Rolling Stone called it “loud, garish, camp, and never less than uproariously entertaining.”

Then she performed at the Super Bowl. Her halftime show garnered 118.5 million viewers—the most watched and highest-rated in Super Bowl history, surpassing Michael Jackson and Beyoncé. The viewership was higher than the game itself.

At the time, nobody could imagine pop music without Katy Perry.

Then her momentum slowed with “Chained to the Rhythm.” Many described it as an awkward attempt at blending pop with political commentary. This was the first sign she was on a different path. Being appreciated for her work wasn’t enough anymore. She wanted to be an activist. A feminist idol for a postmodern age.

She didn’t realize: being a political pop star is a tall order.

Social media made it impossible for celebrities to control their narratives. If you don’t practice what you preach, you’ll be exposed. And that damage might be too big to repair.

Perry spent considerable time assisting Hillary Clinton’s 2016 campaign. She performed at the DNC, made public appearances alongside Clinton, encouraged fans to elect the first female president. “I admire so many things about Hillary,” she said. “I think she recognizes all of our voices.”

Her music delved deeper into political undertones. “Chained to the Rhythm” suggested people are content living in ignorance, shielded from consequences, using entertainment to numb uncomfortable truths. The beauty of Katy Perry’s music was its ability to distract people from everyday life—not lecture them about the economic and political state of the world.

She struggled to present herself as socially conscious without seeming out of touch or opportunistic. Especially considering her follow-up singles—”Bon Appétit” (one big metaphor for oral sex, according to Cosmopolitan) and “Swish Swish” (a Taylor Swift diss track)—were rather shallow.

Her transformation truly materialized when she shaved her head. Throughout her career, she’d sported a classic American pinup aesthetic—often criticized as catering to the male gaze. The buzzcut was a sharp rejection of that image. It aligned with a more modern femininity, one that values self-definition over male approval.

This was all part of her 2017 album rollout for “Witness.” It became her lowest-performing album commercially and critically—agreed upon as her worst to date.

She was trapped. Too progressive, she pushed away her larger audience. Too nostalgic, she seemed outdated and out of touch. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

The real reason she was struggling to understand her fan base? Her best music didn’t come from her heart. That credit belongs to Dr. Luke—the producer responsible for creating the Katy Perry fans fell in love with.

“Witness” was missing his contributions. That’s likely why fans didn’t connect with it.

Dr. Luke co-wrote and produced “I Kissed a Girl” and “Hot n Cold”—breakout singles from “One of the Boys.” The catchy songwriting and strong pop production saved a dying gospel artist’s career. History repeated itself on “Teenage Dream,” where Dr. Luke wrote and produced “California Gurls,” “E.T.,” “Last Friday Night,” and “The One That Got Away.” On “Prism,” he’s credited on almost every song—from “Roar” and “This Is How We Do” to “Unconditionally” and “Dark Horse.”

It’s not a stretch to credit Dr. Luke with Katy Perry’s success. There’s a clear trend between her biggest records and his involvement. He wrote the key lyrics listeners connected with. His vision for each song—what story would be told, what emotion the listener should feel—led to her record-breaking career.

Then Dr. Luke faced serious allegations from Kesha.

In 2014, Kesha filed a lawsuit accusing him of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse over several years, starting when she was eighteen. She sought release from her recording contract, arguing that being forced to work with her alleged abuser was causing irreparable harm. The case gained significant public support under the hashtag #FreeKesha.

Dr. Luke denied everything and filed a defamation lawsuit. But the court of public opinion had already reached a guilty verdict. Any artist collaborating with him became public enemy number one.

Katy tried to stay silent. In late 2017, she was subpoenaed for a deposition in Kesha’s lawsuit. She explicitly denied ever being assaulted by Dr. Luke. She explained her silence: “I want to stay out of it because I know them both. I empathize with both of them. The only two people that know what really went on are those two people.”

She said she felt pressured to support Kesha. “People were generally very angry at me for not saying anything.” She admitted she was annoyed with both of them and stopped working with Dr. Luke because she didn’t want to seem like she was picking sides.

Fans and critics saw cowardice. She’d spent years fighting for progressive ideals, trying to become a leading voice that empowers women—only to be seen as a hypocrite for not unapologetically calling out an alleged predator.

As if it couldn’t get worse, she exhibited behavior on national television many interpreted as predatory.

In 2018, nineteen-year-old Benjamin Glaze auditioned for “American Idol.” After mentioning his job at an electronics store gave him access to cute girls, judge Luke Bryan asked if he’d ever kissed a girl and liked it—a reference to Katy’s song. The flustered teenager said no. He’d never been in a relationship.

A stunned Katy Perry instantly demanded Benjamin to “come here right now” and kiss her on the cheek. After deeming the first kiss unsatisfying, she instructed him to kiss her again—but turned her head at the last second and kissed him on the lips. The judges high-fived, proud their co-star had deceived a barely legal teen.

Backlash was immense. Many noted that if genders were reversed, this would be entirely different. (Benjamin later defended Perry, saying he was uncomfortable because he wanted his first kiss to be special—but wasn’t complaining. He was recently arrested for possessing over 700 images of child pornography. So don’t spend energy feeling bad for him.)

The incident caused a video to resurface from 2012—a twenty-eight-year-old Perry groping an eighteen-year-old Justin Bieber. A pattern of creepiness toward younger boys. Nobody complained because teenage boys are expected to enjoy attention from older women.

This revealed another layer: separating who she claimed to be and who she actually was. Even longtime fans grew skeptical, feeling she was just another part of the evil Hollywood machine.

It kept getting worse.

Without Dr. Luke’s expertise, her music was in serious trouble. She attempted to course-correct with “Smile,” withdrawing from political activism to reflect on personal struggles. The project didn’t match the boldness or originality of her earlier hits. “Witness” failed by trying too hard to be meaningful. “Smile” failed by not trying hard enough to be impactful. Another commercial decrease. Another “worst album to date.”

With the early 2020s bringing a plethora of new pop stars—Dua Lipa, Tate McRae, Tyla, Olivia Rodrigo, Charli XCX, Chappell Roan, Sabrina Carpenter—pop fans just don’t need Katy Perry anymore. Going out on a massive loss after “Smile” would still have left her an undisputed pop legend.

Instead, she’s making the mistake of trying to compete with this incredible wave of emerging talent. She’s embarrassing herself.

After announcing her exit from “American Idol,” she reconnected with the producers who crafted “Teenage Dream”—Max Martin, Stargate, and controversially, Dr. Luke. They were tasked with breathing new life into her dying career, attempting to recreate the magic of an album from nearly two decades ago.

Her upcoming album “143” was described as super high-energy dance pop that would remind people why she’s one of the highest-selling artists of all time.

Then the lead single, “Woman’s World,” dropped.

Smiles faded. Her take on feminism in 2024 was wildly outdated. It sounded like a group of men came up with the idea of what a feminist anthem should be. Because that’s exactly what happened. “Girlboss, you can do it. You go, girl. You were born to shine.”

Laura Snapes of The Guardian gave it one star out of five, calling it “garbage.” Pitchfork described it as “unfathomably tepid” while criticizing the hypocrisy of Dr. Luke’s involvement. How could she produce a song about standing beside all women while in a studio with a man accused of using his power to take advantage of a young female artist?

“143” bombed commercially. Two other singles were released; most people don’t know they exist because they didn’t chart. The project received overwhelmingly negative reviews, citing outdated production and uninspired songwriting. Critics speculated whether artificial intelligence was used.

In interviews, she skipped over the fact that everyone hated “Woman’s World” and everyone was mad about Dr. Luke. She couldn’t even defend herself intelligently.

“I just wanted to, so I did,” she said. “I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

Huge miscalculation.

Karma came to collect.

Then she promoted a Blue Origin space launch organized by Jeff Bezos. The idea: showcase modern women playing a role in space travel. One by one, they rang a bell. A woman with a fear of flying looked terrified. The all-woman crew joined hands in prayer. Then climbed into the capsule.

Nobody fell for this marketing stunt. From the ceremonial bell-ringing to calling themselves astronauts, the optics were terrible. Fans didn’t hold back.

“They aren’t crew. They aren’t astronauts. They’re rich chicks who paid a hefty sum to subsidize Blue Origin.”

“The first all-female space flight was Valentina Tereshkova in 1963. Don’t let them erase our history for cringe billionaire PR.”

They were only in space for a few minutes. None of them controlled the machinery. Katy spent most of the time promoting her upcoming tour instead of experiencing a miracle of modern engineering. Tim Dillon mocked it: “These people should have just quietly done this. How cool. No one would hate you. All you had to do was keep your mouth shut about a cool rich thing you did while the economy is crumbling.”

Everyone hates you now.

Then she embarked on her “Lifetimes” tour. Absolute disaster. Footage shows low-effort, cringe-worthy choreography that doesn’t match the album’s aesthetic. Onlookers compared it to middle school musical level. They said her tour doesn’t hold a candle to Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift.

She seems to be going through a celebrity midlife crisis. At forty years old, she’s aggressively twerking on stage, falling into splits, trying to recapture her youth. She looks lost up there. A woman who has pandered so many different ways that she appears absolutely confused on stage. Doing literally anything to make a spectacle because being a jester is her last chance at relevance.

Night after night, her performances keep getting worse. She’s figured out how to turn herself into a joke consistently. She’s become the kind of person many just love to hate. For a pop star, that trap is nearly impossible to escape.

Katy Perry’s story is a classic case: stand for nothing, fall for anything.

It seems like she’s being overly criticized for silly dance moves and a five-minute trip to space. But this is because of her long history of political pandering, virtue signaling, and not standing for the morals she claimed to have. Nobody actually knows who Katy Perry is supposed to be.

The most interesting part? If her new music was good, most people wouldn’t care about the drama. Unfortunately, she’s lost her touch in the studio—or lost her resources. With other great pop stars dominating in 2025, it’s hard to see what value Katy Perry brings to pop music anymore.

The spotlight didn’t leave her.

She just stopped shining in it.