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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\u2019t Send<\/em>, was a really lovely blend of bedroom pop and Americana that flashed her country roots. Songs like \u201cFast Times\u201d and \u201cVicious\u201d reached for sun-dappled sophistication, and abandoned Carpenter\u2019s bubblegum beginnings. That\u2019s when she started working with producer John Ryan and songwriter Amy Allen<\/a>, 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\u2019s breakout record Short n\u2019 Sweet<\/a><\/em> last year\u2014a true star-making pop title, jolted by three Top-5 singles (\u201cEspresso,\u201d \u201cPlease Please Please,\u201d \u201cTaste\u201d).<\/p>\n 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\u2019re only allowed to be the first part on a pop album in 2025. If you\u2019ve been clued into online music discourse at all in the last three months, then you\u2019ve likely already been inundated by the controversy surrounding the cover of Carpenter\u2019s new album, Man\u2019s Best Friend<\/em>. On it, she\u2019s on her knees and gently caressing the inner thigh of a man whose face we cannot see. What we can<\/em> see is him dressed like a silhouette, holding some of her hair in his fist. The internet did not like this image<\/a>, clamoring to accusations of misogyny, sexism, and objectification. Well, you should have seen the cover she wanted<\/em> to do!<\/a><\/p>\n But the truth is, Man\u2019s Best Friend<\/em> is as brainy as it is raunchy, as clever wordplay is superseded by inspired form. The \u201cman-hating\u201d label Carpenter\u2019s music has been given by its listenership, and the so-called \u201cbetrayal\u201d of this album\u2019s cover artwork, says more about the offended than the offender. These songs, especially \u201cWe Almost Broke Up Again Last Night,\u201d \u201cHouse Party,\u201d and \u201cSugar Talking,\u201d skate past yearning and plunge deep into pockets of a matter-of-fact, grandiose shagging. You might hear a line like \u201cGave me his whole heart and I gave him head\u201d and imagine that the substance ends there, but a lot of this music grapples with healing (\u201cWhen Did You Get Hot?\u201d) and over-indulgence (\u201cGo Go Juice\u201d) in subtle ways. Freak flags fly but only at half-mast, as pleasure bubbles with a touch of \u201cI\u2019m the problem\u201d idling beneath it. On \u201cMy Man on Willpower,\u201d Carpenter gets especially candid about a boyfriend\u2019s apathy: \u201cHe used to be literally obsessed with me, I\u2019m suddenly the least sought-after girl in the land.\u201d<\/p>\n The album\u2019s double entendres, which Carpenter and Allen\u2019s 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. \u201cHouse Tour\u201d is not about a house (\u201cYeah, I spent a little fortune on the waxed floor \/ We can be a little reckless, \u2018cause it\u2019s insured\u201d). The disco-ball fabulousness of \u201cTears\u201d reveals an appetite for good behavior, as Carpenter makes the argument that nice guys don\u2019t finish last, but inside and all over (\u201cI get wet at the thought of you \/ \u2026 \/ Treating me like you\u2019re supposed to\u201d). The \u201ctears\u201d running down her leg aren\u2019t some weepy consequence. Her self-deprecation can be funny (\u201cIt\u2019s your seventh last chance, honey \/ Get your sorry ass to mine\u201d) but her romantic escapades can be hopelessly common (\u201cBeen here a thousand times \/ Selective memory, though\u201d).<\/p>\n