Pop has always had its comedians, but rarely one quite like Sabrina Carpenter. Her new album Man’s Best Friend doesn’t just flirt with innuendo; it turns the entire idea of romance into a stage play where the punchlines hit as hard as the hooks. Carpenter isn’t interested in whispering sultry clichés or pretending love is anything but ridiculous. Instead, she revels in its absurdities, turning jealousy, lust, and power games into comedy sketches dressed in satin melodies. It’s not camp for camp’s sake, nor some arch parody of femininity; it’s a knowing grin, sharpened by timing and delivered with a pop sheen slick enough to make the chaos go down easy. If the old Hollywood sex comedies teased the blurry line between romance and farce, Man’s Best Friend updates the genre for an age where the laugh often lands harder than the kiss.
The album kicks off with “Manchild”, a track already crowned by the Hot 100 and loudly auditioning for “song of the summer”. It’s bubblegum pop with teeth, Carpenter poking holes in the fragile ego of a boy who mistakes sulking for masculinity. The humour is ruthless but never cruel; she delivers each barb with the kind of timing that makes you laugh before you realise the sting. The accompanying video casts her as a desert femme fatale, sun-bleached in Polaroid tones, playfully sabotaging men who should know better. It’s Carpenter at her sharpest: making mockery glamorous.
From there, the mood loosens into the summer haze of “Tears”, a pop track coloured by organ keys and a sweetness that feels ripped straight out of a teen-movie montage. It’s the soundtrack to a backyard pool party where the jokes flow faster than the drinks. Then comes “My Man on Willpower”, softer and more restrained, its appeal is in how it doesn’t try too hard, a rare pause in an album that thrives on excess. “Sugar Talking” occupies a similar register, reverberant and easy, like a whispered conversation stretched across a late-night car ride. Both tracks mark a shift from satire to sincerity, proof Carpenter doesn’t only trade in punchlines.
Still, she can’t resist the drama. “We Almost Broke Up Again Last Night” leans into country-pop heartbreak, performed with the conviction of someone replaying an argument in their head until dawn. “Nobody’s Son”, by contrast, is lighter, almost childlike in its delivery, more nursery rhyme than anthem, but strangely memorable in the way it embraces simplicity. Then comes “Never Getting Laid”, where every line doubles as a hook. It’s part comedy routine, part confessional rant, and all melody, a reminder that Carpenter’s wit is inseparable from her musicianship.
“When Did You Get Hot” anchors the middle stretch with lyrics that could only have been written in 2025: self-aware, plugged into the language of online culture, yet grounded in the timeless confusion of attraction. It’s also where you start to see why so many of her song titles read like text messages; they’re snapshots of conversations, fragments of thought, punchlines before the joke lands.
The album’s energy spikes again with “Go Go Juice”, a track that tilts toward country-pop while pushing the BPM into dance territory. It’s fizzy and restless, like drinking something too sweet but not caring because it works. “Don’t Worry I’ll Make You Worry” slides back into pop maximalism, guitars and soft percussion weaving under Carpenter’s sly delivery. “House Tour” takes the early-2000s palette, jagged percussion, speed, gloss, and pushes it to near-parody, a reminder that she can exaggerate tropes without losing her footing.
Closer “Goodbye” drops the irony altogether. “I’ve cried so much I almost fainted / Goodbye / Adios,” she sings, the humour gone, replaced by exhaustion. It’s a raw ending, not triumphant, not tragic, but drained. After an album of jokes, flirtations, and self-mockery, Carpenter leaves you with silence, as if the party lights just snapped on and there’s nothing left but the floor to sweep.
With phrases as titles, shallow lyrics and jokes that sometimes lean more on charm than depth, Man’s Best Friend could, at first glance, be dismissed as froth. But that’s too easy, and frankly misses the point. Pop has always thrived on surfaces, the trick is knowing how to weaponise them. Carpenter takes what looks like throwaway material and spins it into theatre: the text-message titles, the Instagram-ready one-liners, the camp exaggeration of heartbreak. She knows how absurd it all is, and she’s in on the joke long before anyone else.
In a space where pop often disguises itself as serious art, Carpenter flips the script by making frivolity feel radical. Her comedy doesn’t undercut her; it protects her, turns her vulnerability into spectacle without losing the sting of truth. She’s not offering wisdom or depth so much as a mirror to the absurdity of modern relationships, and she polishes that mirror until you can dance to your own reflection.
If earlier eras had their sex comedies, Man’s Best Friend is the 2025 reboot: part satire, part diary, all pop. It’s messy, it’s funny, it’s occasionally shallow, but it’s also thrilling, because it dares to treat those qualities as virtues. Carpenter knows the heartbreak is real, but the laughter is what keeps you alive long enough to sing about it.
