In June, Sabrina Carpenter announced her seventh album, Man’s Best Friend; its artwork depicts Carpenter on her hands and knees, an unseen man grasping a handful of her hair. It instantly caused an uproar online – most notably among Carpenter’s young fans, who weren’t on Tumblr in 2015, or weren’t aware of the way the Sun newspaper wrote about Madonna every day of the 1990s and 2000s, and therefore didn’t realise that discourse around whether pop stars should or shouldn’t be allowed to sexualise themselves is older than pop music itself, and almost always inane.
Anyone hitting play on Man’s Best Friend in search of another barrel-full of ragebait might be alarmed, not because it is particularly provocative, but because it is strangely old-fashioned. Carpenter is fond of blue turns of phrase (“Gave me his whole heart and I gave him head”), and the wordiness of her lyrics is indicative of someone who grew up in an era of constant stimulus. But Man’s Best Friend makes it clear that she regards pop music as a craft as much as it is an art.
