reflections on emails i can't send fwd
Music has the ability to transport me to specific moments in time. Growing up in Southern California in the 90s, the backdrop to my childhood was the “Motown Magic” block on K-Earth 101. My mom would take my brothers and I onto her thrift store circuit and the station would usually be playing in the car and at the various Salvation Armies, Goodwills, and local spots. I know lots of people my age who have deep nostalgia for the music that was actively coming out at the time—girl and boy bands, female pop stars, R&B, the epic west coast vs east coast rap scene—but my childhood was the Jackson 5, Mary Wells, Smokey Robinson, the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Marvelettes, Marvin Gaye, and, of course, Diana Ross and the Supremes. Love was the spectrum of pure joy in “I Hear a Symphony,” the underlying desperation of “Baby Love,” and the righteous anger of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On.”
A couple months ago, I wrote about the MSN Messenger Display Names that I used that encapsulate what being a teenager was like for me in the 2000s and I’ve gone through similar phases throughout my college years and beyond. Nick Drake will always remind me of people watching on the bus—in a crowd, but still lonely. The Undertale soundtrack will always make me think about grad school and my wedding; a period of intense, harrowing sorrow and a much needed light in the dark. Porter Robinson’s recent Smile! :D will always take me back to the summer on the bus that I played the album from start to finish on loop, buoying me through a major bout of depression.
Right now, I’m going through another major life change and listening to music has been difficult for me because I know that whatever I listen to will always remind me of the dissolution of a 15-year relationship. That's a lot to internalize. For the past few weeks, I’ve mostly been playing podcasts and tuning out the world because I don’t know when I’ll feel okay enough to listen to music that used to bring me so much joy—especially when that’s tethered to memories that have been cast in a different light.
There’s one album that has been a comfort for me for the past week, however, and I think I’m okay associated it with this transition: Sabrina Carpenter’s emails I can’t send: fwd. Like a lot of people, I have listened to a lot of Sabrina’s music for the past year and I adore many of the tracks on Short and Sweet. All of the pop girlies brought us a summer of infectious, charismatic, horny joy and I listened to all of them when I wasn’t listening to Porter Robinson. Going back to emails is a different experience, though. It’s more pensive as it crawls through the range of emotions of love and heartbreak.
The titular opening track is an incredible intermingling of anger and sorrow that speaks to the sense of grief one cycles through with extramarital betrayal. Although Sabrina is speaking from the perspective of a daughter grappling with the knowledge about her father’s shortcomings, to say the least, the line “And thanks to you, I, I can’t love right” hits so hard and I love the crescendo when she begs “Please fuckin’ fix this.” There are so many emotions bottled into less than two minutes, which makes me wish that the cheeky ending nod to Chicago wasn’t present at the end even though it’s a good set up for the tone shift in “Vicious.”
There are many songs with more light-hearted, comedic, optimistic, and horny sentiments that remind me of the direction Sabrina goes into for Short and Sweet. It’s no surprise to me that “Nonsense” was a fan favorite, with or without the ending ad libs, because it’s such a breath of fresh air among the murkier feelings of the album while “skinny dipping” as the original closer song considers the possibility of a brighter future once we’ve had more time and distance to process the trauma of our past. On fwd, “Bad for Business” is a fun addition that gestures toward repeating patterns of behavior (“I can’t find a single reason / I’d make all the same mistakes again”) while falling head over heels for someone in a way that feels familiar in “Please, Please, Please.”
“bet u wanna” and “Feather” are also standout tracks for rebuilding one’s self-esteem after a breakup. The former is teeming with resentful, but empowered, karma; the beat is heavy and her voice is husky as she teases her ex for wanting what they now can’t have (“Didn’t think about it when you let me down / Hurts to see me outta your reach / Bet you wanna touch me now.”) The live performances of this song are fucking great, too; while she oozes all the same sexuality of the Short and Sweet era, it’s tone is so different from the dynamics described in songs like “Bed Chem” and “Juno.” On the other hand, “Feather” is less about karma and more about the satisfaction of having moved on; if “bet u wanna” wants to grind in the face of their spurned lover, this song is about the other person having zero hold over their life (“I feel so much lighter like a feather with you off my mind / Floatin’ through the memories like whatever, you’re a waste of time.”)
Less empowered, but still exploring those hard feelings post-breakup are the songs “opposite” and “Already Over.” The former track feels like the speaker is nearing a mental place where she can stand up straight on her own two feet, but there are still many lingering pains as she watches the other person move on. The chorus, however, acknowledges that even though she feels weak, it’s not a reflection that she wasn’t good enough or a failure (“And I know / Even if I tried to change / That somehow / You’d end up with her anyway.”) The lingering hurt is less about feeling truly pitted against the new flame and more about questioning the honesty of their history together (“Just wonderin’, when you (When you) / Said I’m beautiful / Was I bein’ lied to?”)
Musically, “Already Over” reminds me a lot of the more folk-leaning songs off Short and Sweet like “Sharpest Tool” and “Slim Pickens” and lyrically shares the theme of confusion with the former song. Like “Tornado Warnings,” which I’ll address next, the speaker focuses on the thin line between being together and separated. The permanency of things being truly over scares the speaker (“But I’ll take three short hours over / Three long weeks pretendin’ like we don’t exist”) and they are waiting for a moment of clarity that will tell them that the end is right (“I say I’m done, but I’m still confused / How am I supposed to close the door when I still need the closure?”) I’ve spent my share of long nights staring at the ceiling wondering why I’m sticking around but also feeling like I’m waiting for an epiphany.
“Tornado Warnings” is a good interim between the phase of being on-and-off again and breaking up where the hope that things might still work out hasn’t completely vanished, but the speaker is consciously acknowledging that deep down they know that they treading deep water. Full disclosure: I try very hard not to lie to my therapists and was transparent with them the entire time I was going through all the tumult of the past couple of years. But the internal struggle that Sabrina captures? Very real. The opening imagery is so evocative (“We were never in the park / Talkin’ on a seesaw teetering with our feelings / Ignoring tornado warnings / He didn’t hold me in his arms / We didn’t stumble over the pages of our relationship arc”) of those moments where you know leaning away might spare you further heartbreak, but you can’t help it because you “Don’t understand how quickly we get / Right back in our rhythm without missing a step.” Sometimes we pour so much into trying to make something work because of nostalgia, hope, and a connection that is still very present even if it’s not the same. But when you feel like it’s your feelings teetering on the seesaw, that it’s become imbalanced, all of that doubt creeps up (“I deserve an hour in a week to focus on my thoughts / Not so obsessed with yours, I can’t hear myself speak.”)
This puncture gives way to some of the more somber tracks, such as “how many things,” “Lonesome,” and “things i wish you said.” I know a lot of people think the opening line to “how many things” is ridiculous, but I find it heartbreaking in its ordinariness (“You used a fork once / It turns out forks are fuckin’ everywhere / There’s no hiding from the thought of us / I got ways to find you anywhere.”) Sure, out of context, the image of sobbing over a fork sounds absurd, but given that I have broken down while passing bags of coffee in the grocery store, I think that sucker punch turn to the deeper feelings behind the initial exasperation is poignant. This weaves into the pre-chorus where the speaker confesses that everything reminds her of her ex no matter how she might try to resist it (“I can’t help it, it’s a habit / Your corner in my mind is well-established”) and the “I” that opens the chorus is so ethereal and exquisite in its vulnerability as she wonders whether her ex is even remotely as haunted by her (“I wonder how many things you think about before you get to me . . . I feel myself fallin’ further down your priorities / And I still make excuses for you constantly.”) These conflicting feelings resonate with many of the other themes like the imbalanced seesaw—giving more than receiving. The second verse kills me when she describes consoling her ex after having her own heart broken (“Well it hurt you so bad hurting me / You really came to me for sympathy.”) The speaker is so torn between longing and letting go, acknowledging that they were wronged but still harboring these unresolved feelings that very well might never have clarity.
“Lonesome” has more of a sense of humor to it, but I think it lyrically still explores similar vulnerabilities. If the speaker in “how many things” is just beginning to process her hurt, “Lonesome” has let the rose-tinted glasses fall from the bridge of her nose. The song opens with “If I fall in love with all my problems, will they leave me too? Or maybe I believed in all your lies ‘cause I believed in you” This one-two punch of humor and reality lands harder and sharper than the previous one. There’s a more prominent note of anger and resentment brewing throughout the lyrics (“Tell me I was more than just a decent opportunity / Or will you tell me anything I wanna hear to control how you’re perceived?”) that calls out a perceived selfish, calculating nature in her ex. Gone are the secret, late night park kisses. This speaker would rather be lonely than see past the betrayal.
This is why I find ‘things i wish you said,” the closer of the deluxe edition, so fascinating: by virtue of the title, and reinforced within the chorus, the speaker never got to hear these sentiments whether they were felt or not. Some of these are statements of accountability (“‘When I saw you cry, I didn’t handle it well’”, “‘One day, I’ll make sure you get a real apology’”), others are those sentiments of regret and jealousy conveyed in “bet u wanna” (“‘I saw you met somebody and I’m jealous as hell / That I can’t even stomach lovin’ somebody else’”) but the final line is the speaker’s admission that she’s never going to hear these things. There’s a sad, tired acceptance even if what happened still hurts and keeps her up at night.
Of all the songs, I relate the most to “decode.” As someone who has anxiety and is likely on the spectrum, I analyze everything. When my separation first started, I literally combed through my entire written catalogue of text searching for answers: emails, texts, journal entries, letters, photos—everything. The speaker notes that she’s overanalyzed everything searching for answers, but has come to a tired but decisive conclusion that the relationship is over: “Done lookin’ for signs in / The gaps and the silence / It’s just gettin’ old / There’s nothin’ left here to decode.” There’s a lingering frustration the speaker feels before their transition into the lightness of “Feather” where they reckon with how much investment they put into something that didn’t feel reciprocated (“Now I wonder why / I let your confusion keep me up at night.”) I had my own moment of closure and let me tell you: it fucking sucked. It still sucks. And the outro of a happy, laughing Sabrina saying “I wanna make a video to our future selves” makes me want to sob. When you’re young and naive and believe in love, not just abstractly but in this person, your person, it’s such a sweet and pure thing. But even though all those happy moments exist in time, they can feel so soured by all the more recent scars.
One day, I’ll be ready for music again. I’ll make playlists that will drop me back into slices of my life that will make me laugh, cry, dance, and scream. But for now, Sabrina’s album is a comfort to me as I explore the full spectrum of my grief. While I doubt I will be “nostalgic” for this time in my life, I hope that I will be able to listen to her again in the future and remember how I carried myself through this and survived—hopefully feeling lighter than a feather and ready for a new symphony to sweep me away.