Carrie Underwood doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by the fact that she was primarily asked pregnancy-related questions on the red carpet when she arrived at the CMT Artists of the Year honors last month. Underwood walks into most interviews prepared to field questions about things like her workout routine, beauty regimen, and family life, topics that simply come with the territory of being the celebrity face of a fitness clothing line and a makeup brand. As she points out patiently, perched on a meeting-room couch in the Music Row offices of her management company, that’s “part of the empire you wanna build for yourself as an artist.”
“I just like being creative in different ways,” she says, “so I don’t mind talking about a lot of it, but it can get a little wearing, I guess, when you do wanna talk about new music or you wanna get across that, ‘Hey, I write music too.’ It’s so weird that I feel like people still don’t quite grasp that.”
Music, she emphasizes, is the “cornerstone” of her identity. Underwood’s been a country-pop superstar, in the classic sense of the term, for more than a dozen years now — not only one of her genre’s most reliable hit-makers, but one of its most poised, polished and ambitious ambassadors, adept at managing her image. She’s also served as a bridge between the country stars of the ’90s and early aughts — many of whom were vigorous song interpreters who drew stirring ballads, dramatic story-songs and danceable honky-tonk numbers from the catalogues of professional songsmiths and aimed to stage ever bigger and better arena tours — and the crop of artists who’ve broken through this decade, making music from defiantly casual, personalized, millennial postures. Underwood arrived just as it began to matter more that country artists wrote their own songs, and just before Nashville really began to feel the influence of contemporary pop, hip-hop, and R&B on its production techniques, vocal approaches, and overall sensibilities. She’s adapted to the changing landscape at her own, measured pace.
As for the more symbolic facets of her country music role, Underwood has co-hosted her industry’s leading award show for the past decade, and at a recent CMT event celebrating women artists exclusively, she was called on to anchor a tribute medley that culminated with one of her own songs. At the end, she held out the money note, belting with all the force she could muster, while the backing band paused in salute to her athletic feat. Then she caught her breath, scanning the crowd with a look of satisfaction, and finished the final line.
The power ballad that Underwood wrapped up her performance with, “Cry Pretty,” is the potent title track of her sixth album, which came out in mid-September. In the months leading up to it, a fall that severely injured her face and necessitated stitches was the subject of much fascination. Then, attention turned to her revelation that she’d endured three miscarriages while working on the album. But there was another quieter bit of news, one that specifically had to do with the making of music: She’d not only co-written a greater number of the songs on Cry Pretty than on any of its predecessors — nine of its 13 tracks — but had, for the first time, co-produced herself. With a new collaborator, writer-producer David Garcia, she tested the waters of broodier expression and, here and there, nudged her trademark glossy sound, a blend of modern twang, hair-metal guitars and propulsive pop rhythms, toward icy synths and spacious beats.
People aren’t necessarily used to considering how Underwood shapes her output, because dominant narratives tend to minimize women’s artistic agency, when it’s recognized at all; that’s even more true for a performer launched by a reality-TV competition into a format viewed condescendingly by some as a home to packaged stars. Garcia told her that acquaintances have inquired, “Does she really write?” “And I know he’s quick to let ’em know how it is,” says Underwood. So is she, when the right questions are asked.
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