Sabrina Carpenter, the Quakertown-born former Disney Channel kid and niece of Bart Simpson, has been churning out albums for 10 years now, despite what her recent Grammy nomination for Best New Artist may suggest. In fact, her fifth album, Emails I Can’t Send, was a really lovely blend of bedroom pop and Americana that flashed her country roots. Songs like “Fast Times” and “Vicious” reached for sun-dappled sophistication, and abandoned Carpenter’s bubblegum beginnings. That’s when she started working with producer John Ryan and songwriter Amy Allen, both of whom have remained two of her closest collaborators in the three years since. The trio, along with Jack Antonoff, teamed up to make Carpenter’s breakout record Short n’ Sweet last year—a true star-making pop title, jolted by three Top-5 singles (“Espresso,” “Please Please Please,” “Taste”).
Carpenter is funny and gorgeous, and her image is teeming with bombshell charisma and a small-town charm. She also likes to fuck and sing about it. Apparently, you’re only allowed to be the first part on a pop album in 2025. If you’ve been clued into online music discourse at all in the last three months, then you’ve likely already been inundated by the controversy surrounding the cover of Carpenter’s new album, Man’s Best Friend. On it, she’s on her knees and gently caressing the inner thigh of a man whose face we cannot see. What we can see is him dressed like a silhouette, holding some of her hair in his fist. The internet did not like this image, clamoring to accusations of misogyny, sexism, and objectification. Well, you should have seen the cover she wanted to do!
But the truth is, Man’s Best Friend is as brainy as it is raunchy, as clever wordplay is superseded by inspired form. The “man-hating” label Carpenter’s music has been given by its listenership, and the so-called “betrayal” of this album’s cover artwork, says more about the offended than the offender. These songs, especially “We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night,” “House Party,” and “Sugar Talking,” skate past yearning and plunge deep into pockets of a matter-of-fact, grandiose shagging. You might hear a line like “Gave me his whole heart and I gave him head” and imagine that the substance ends there, but a lot of this music grapples with healing (“When Did You Get Hot?”) and over-indulgence (“Go Go Juice”) in subtle ways. Freak flags fly but only at half-mast, as pleasure bubbles with a touch of “I’m the problem” idling beneath it. On “My Man on Willpower,” Carpenter gets especially candid about a boyfriend’s apathy: “He used to be literally obsessed with me, I’m suddenly the least sought-after girl in the land.”
The album’s double entendres, which Carpenter and Allen’s knack for could require an entire semester of attention just to sift through, argue that arousal is not black-and-white or cut-and-paste. “House Tour” is not about a house (“Yeah, I spent a little fortune on the waxed floor / We can be a little reckless, ‘cause it’s insured”). The disco-ball fabulousness of “Tears” reveals an appetite for good behavior, as Carpenter makes the argument that nice guys don’t finish last, but inside and all over (“I get wet at the thought of you / … / Treating me like you’re supposed to”). The “tears” running down her leg aren’t some weepy consequence. Her self-deprecation can be funny (“It’s your seventh last chance, honey / Get your sorry ass to mine”) but her romantic escapades can be hopelessly common (“Been here a thousand times / Selective memory, though”).
And then there are the barbs, feverishly abundant in “Manchild,” as Carpenter pokes fun at the idiots who court her (“Why so sexy if so dumb? And how survive the Earth so long?”). But she quickly turns the camera on herself (“Why you always come a-running to me? Fuck my life, won’t you let an innocent woman be?”) by flashing her own compulsions and deflecting responsibility (“I swear they choose me, I’m not choosing them”). She covers the knife blade in sugar on “Never Getting Laid” (“I just hope you get agoraphobia some day / And all your days are sunny from your windowpane”) and relishes in sloppiness on “Go Go Juice” (“I miss you and I think about you every minute / If you’re still disinterested in me, well, fuck / Just trying different numbers, didn’t think that you’d pick up”). A year ago “Please Please Please”—a song that is still undoubtedly perfect—may have sealed in amber Carpenter’s ability to turn a “fuck you” into a sterling pop hit, but Man’s Best Friend reveals that to be coveted and adored is to be messy in pursuit of it.
While Antonoff engineered Carpenter’s best song on Short n’ Sweet (“Please Please Please”), he also had top-billing on two of the worst (“Sharpest Tool,” “Lie to Girls”). This isn’t me blatantly championing John Ryan’s work, as “Dumb & Poetic” was also painfully dull, but an assessment of Antonoff’s inconsistencies, which make filler tracks all the more disposable, like “Don’t Worry I’ll Make You Worry.” But, as Antonoff’s partnership with Taylor Swift is seemingly on-hold (after producing most of her discography since the mid-2010s, he is not billed on her upcoming LP, The Life of a Showgirl), he’s clearly been exploring new territory on his recent collaborations, working with Kendrick Lamar, Bartees Strange, and Maren Morris in the last year alone. That variety comes through on Man’s Best Friend, in its two best pieces (“My Man on Willpower,” “Goodbye”). What separates his work with Carpenter from his recent work with Swift (emphasis on “recent”), to my ear, is that his ideas get put into action more on the former. So, when he lets his own fascinations meld with the artist’s, his success rate is through the roof—like the rambling, jabbing synths on “Manchild,” which explode into Bleachers-style horns and a twang not unlike the roots Carpenter refuses to leave behind.
And the sounds of Man’s Best Friend are touched. A splash of atonal, orchestral noise on the sorta-bilingual “Goodbye” briefly flirts with Magical Mystery Tour horns before ascending into full ABBA Gold territory. Flashes of George Harrison color Mikey Freedom Hart’s slide guitar on “My Man on Willpower,” which rubs up against a wall of Bobby Hawk’s strings. The Dolly-fried country-pop of “Go Go Juice” melts into Janet-craving New Jack Swing on “House Tour” and Y2K R&B on “When Did You Get Hot?,” while the musical-theater of “We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night” resists falling into Glee Cast territory, thanks to Carpenter’s Allen-backed harmonizing, Antonoff’s 12-string guitar, and Hawk’s cresting, teary violin. A uniqueness juts out of the Ryan-produced moments too, like the Rocky Horror vamps in “Tears,” the city pop twinkles in “Never Getting Laid Again,” and his sultry, by-the-numbers soul-pop programming in “Sugar Talking.”
Whatever star Short n’ Sweet prophesied Carpenter to be is obliterated in the company of Man’s Best Friend—an album that, far and away, outdoes its predecessor at each turn. Where Carpenter’s musical identity a year ago was kneecapped by three great singles that overpowered a well-made project, Man’s Best Friend sounds fuller, funner, meaner, and more balanced. And at a time like now, where white-woman pop is as dull as ever, an album like this is remarkable for that. Carpenter could have played it safe too, churning out cutesy, tongue-in-cheek material ad nauseam without capitalizing on her talents.
Instead, she sets herself apart vocally from her peers (“We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night,” “Goodbye”), recites the hits of her Laurel Canyon, MTV, and Swedish heroes for guidance, and makes keeping a libido hidden behind closed doors no fun at all. You may not fuck like Sabrina Carpenter, and maybe that frustrates you. But one of the coolest parts of Man’s Best Friend is that you don’t have to be a sheets merchant to be in on the joke. The gist isn’t just that people suck and we need them dearly, but that it feels good to talk shit on them, too. “You used to love my ass, now, baby, you won’t see it again” and all of that. Surely you can relate? These songs are a lot of fun. Listening to them, you won’t know whether to laugh, cry, or cum.
Matt Mitchell is Paste’s music editor, reporting from their home in Los Angeles.
‘ The preceding article may include information circulated by third parties ’
‘ Some details of this article were extracted from the following source www.pastemagazine.com ’
