Sabrina Carpenter has chosen to follow up the chart-shattering success of Espresso, the catchiest single of 2024 by a considerable distance, with an album destined to prove controversial before anyone had even heard a note. The big talking point around Man’s Best Friend is obviously the cover image of Carpenter on her knees as a man pulls her hair.
Was this shameless pandering to the creepy male gaze? A strong woman taking ownership of her image? A commentary on the objectification of pop stars? Or a shameless bid for our attention by an artist who already has it?
Whatever the answer, the sobering fact is that it’s by far the most interesting thing about a project that is a pale shadow of Espresso and the accompanying Short n’ Sweet LP. It’s a competently put-together and artistically ambitious affair yet one lacking the sense of fun that crackled through its predecessor.
Carpenter says she isn’t much bothered by the detractors. She has also been clear that everything she does is an expression of her instincts as an artist, not a calculated attempt at controversy.
The longer Joanna Donnelly’s Drivetime interview goes on, the more we worry
CMAT, Liam Neeson, David McCullagh: Eight people who would make a great president of Ireland
Thursday Murder Club review: The weak link here, sadly, is the greatest James Bond of all
From Nigeria to Ireland: ‘The people in Dublin are so difficult; you would be shocked that people can actually behave that way’
“If I’m being completely transparent, I don’t do anything anticipating what the reaction will be. I only do things that speak to me, that feel right, and make sense when you hear the music,” she told Interview magazine this week. “When I came up with the imaging for it, it was so clear to me what it meant. So the reaction is fascinating to me. You just watch it unravel and go, ‘Wow’.”
Wow is not a word that springs to mind when negotiating the largely forgettable Man’s Best Friend. Instead of Short n’ Sweet’s joie de vivre and choruses that get their claws in like candy-cane grappling hooks, Carpenter has amped up the explicit lyrics.
After Manchild, the promising opening track – reportedly directed at Barry Keoghan, her former beau – she goes straight into the red zone with Tears, a retro disco workout that zeroes in on her erogenous areas via lyrics that could have been plucked from the subconsciousness of the late Benny Hill.
There is further steaminess on the R&B stomper When Did You Get Hot?, on which she fantasises about playing “naked Twister” – sounds painful – with a potential love interest. This is not new territory for Carpenter, who has never apologised for putting her sexuality to the forefront of her lyrics and live performances (though she dialled back considerably when bringing her Short n’ Sweet tour back to London over the summer).
She is entirely within her rights to do so: it’s her career, and her songs are an expression of her personality and world view. The difference is that this time the music is less attention-grabbing. Take away the irresistible melodies and you’re left with a lot of single entendres with no place to go. Imagine a Carry On film minus the gags. Then repeat 11 times.
Carpenter has suggested that if you don’t like her music or the way she presents herself, well, fine. No artist has the right to be universally adored. What this leaves out is the fact that she has many fans who are preteen or younger. She has done well out of her primary-school audience. The question is whether she should take them (and their aghast parents) into consideration when writing lyrics that leave nothing to the imagination.
The album’s production is anonymous and saccharine – a surprise given the involvement of the Taylor Swift producer Jack Antonoff. To her credit, Carpenter tries something different with the country stomp of Go Go Juice, but different doesn’t mean memorable, and the tune peters out in a haze of sub-Dolly Parton cliche, or a hellish version of Sheryl Crow.
There are some decent ballads: Don’t Worry I’ll Make You Worry is her version of Taylor Swift’s epic All Too Well, and Nobody’s Son is an excellent showpiece for her expressive voice, even if the bridge feels like a second cousin of The Tide Is High, as made famous by Blondie. It would be likewise foolish to deny the charm of the slow burner House Tour (though, again, the lyrics are eye-rollingly explicit).
But Man’s Best Friend ultimately lacks a unifying mood or personality. It feels like a grab-bag of ideas chucked together, with steamy lyrics poured on top. After the sheer joy of Espresso, this is a decaf album that desperately lacks buzz.
