Nick Carpenter released his last Medium Build album, Country, in April 2024 and spent the rest of that year rigorously touring across the globe. During those nonstop months, his partying reached a fever pitch, as did his self-doubt, and in February 2025, while on tour with Role Model in Australia, he hit rock bottom. “It’s a lot of shame, anger, resentment, I’m not good enough,” Carpenter says of his feelings at that time. “And then you just resign to like, well, I’ll just drink myself to death in Adelaide. That’ll be a good way to go out.”
Instead, he reached out for help and slowly started to regain control of his life. He got sober, was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and took time for journaling and reading. He spent the better part of the year rebuilding his relationship with Annika Bennett, a fellow musician and collaborator whom he began dating at the end of 2024, and though he slowed down, he continued to play shows, including Coachella and tours with Petey USA, Rainbow Kitten Surprise and Tyler Childers. And amid it all, in June 2025, he recorded his sixth album, King of Having Fun, due out Sept. 4 on slowplay/Island Records, where he signed in 2023.
The album, recorded live over two weeks in East Nashville, combines the Georgia native’s drawling, hearty baritone with plenty of acoustic and electric guitar, buoyant rhythms, unforgettable melodies and self-reflective, observational lyrics. The three King of Having Fun singles — “Armor,” “Home Depot” and “In My Gut” — are some of the record’s strongest, but there’s far more to discover. “Do Something Productive” sets words about Carpenter’s self-destructive tendencies to a playful, wholesome melody. “It’s Not Easy Falling in Love” is a radio-ready cautionary tale about losing love, and “Bird Woman,” written while watching a multigenerational family do tai chi in a park, absolutely rips. With his trademark impassioned delivery intact and the music muscular enough to sustain it, Carpenter has assembled 14 of his best songs to date.
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Speaking over Zoom a little over a week before the release date, Carpenter is under the weather. “I did tour for a couple weeks and did press, and I think today was the day my body was like, ‘Hey, by the way, fuck you. Here’s sickness and exhaustion,’” he says, reclining on his couch and wearing a blue baseball cap that reads “Oh My God!” and a navy blue thrift store sweatshirt with the words “Whaling City, New Bedford, MA” in white letters. He splits time between Nashville and Los Angeles, and today, he’s at his West Coast home. His dog Stanley, a Yorkie, is asleep under the table and refuses to go outside because it’s too hot.
Despite not feeling well, Carpenter, 35, is in good spirits and in a better place than he was during Country’s release. “Country kind of felt like this cage match between myself, where I was like, ‘I have to prove that I’m commercial because all these suits are betting on me,’ but I also have to remember to be a person because that’s how I got here, you know? Country was kind of made with a lot of turmoil, whereas King of Having Fun was made after getting all the dreams, realizing they don’t satisfy, and then burning out, taking a break, getting sober, getting on meds, changing my life, deciding I do want to live, and I don’t care if music is my life.”
On the precipice of King of Having Fun’s arrival, Carpenter revisits the moments that led him here.
Who taught you how to sing?
My mom was the first singer I knew. She sang in the car, she kind of told me and my brother to sing harmonies. We would all be trying to sing with her, and she’s like, “No, that’s my part. You try to find your own part.” So that was, in a way, a musical education. But then, my affect, the way my voice works, I would assume nobody would want to take credit for that. I was in chorus pretty much my whole life, and I remember being scolded, like, “Hey, Nick, you’re kind of singing like a pop singer. You’re oversinging.”
You’re no longer a member of it, but what was it like growing up in an evangelical Christian church?
[It was] non-denominational, like the most generic, white-bread, suburban, jeans and a polo, you know. My church was basically a place for upper middle-class dads to hand out their business cards, but my mom really believed it. Why couldn’t we be like the cool rich families that just clock in for vibes? Why do we have to go home and pray more? Out of all the straws, I drew the nerds that really fucked with it, but then I did too for a long time.
What changed?
My brother went [to Anchorage, Alaska] in 2009, worked the salmon season. He called me and he’s like, “You just should come up here. It’s sick.” So, then I went up. I met non-Christians, met drug and alcohol people, worked a real job. And these people are awesome, and they love me, but also, they’re sinners, and I’m like, wait, all these people are gonna go to hell? I just couldn’t buy it.
You left Alaska and went to Middle Tennessee State University in 2011 for songwriting. Why did you decide to head south again?
I did my year up in Alaska, was like, ‘whoa, this is really cold. I’m gonna die here. I don’t want to live with my brother anymore.’ At this point, I’m like 19, and so I just knew I should do something other than drink and play open mics. So, I went to Murfreesboro outside of Nashville, did that for like five years, dropped out. I did more playing in bands than I did school. But that was a really good education, playing house parties and shitty punk bars and going on tour.
You went back to Alaska after that though. Why not stick around Nashville longer?
I got too into the biz. I don’t really like being in Music City, even though I split time between the two of them. I don’t prefer being around the majority of people who work in the industry. The best thing about living in Anchorage, where I was full time from 2016 to 2023, was that your friends are like nurses and pilots and teachers and lawyers. Everyone’s like, “How’s your music going?” instead of everyone knowing every move you’re making and calculating it. That was a bad place for me, especially when I didn’t have any success. It was just better to come up in obscurity and make music in a town where no one cares about your profession. I needed that, you know, a healthy amount of disrespect.
Why did you make Medium Build a solo project?
I’m a very social person, but I’m also incredibly insecure, and so when I’m in group dynamics, I will acquiesce. I have a hard time co-writing because if someone else is like, “I like this idea,” and I’m like, “Sure, great.” Then we get to the end, and my manager’s like, “Do you love this song?” I am like, “No, I actually hate it.” She’s like, “Well, why did you make it?” I’m like, “Because that person liked it, and I really wanted them to have a good day.” So that’s sort of how Medium Build came out of this isolation, and even calling it Medium Build, I was like, no one will take this seriously. But when I finally gave up being in Nashville and moved back to Alaska, they kind of loved that. They were like, “This feels genuine,” and that was a really safe and fertile place for me to incubate Medium Build.
You moved back to Nashville in 2023, signed with slowplay/Island Records and then released your album Country in 2024 and had a tumultuous tour that eventually resulted in your sobriety. What were you feeling — overwhelmed, sad?
I think it was closer to shame. “Look at this guy who’s got everything, and he’s not enjoying it.” And even worse, he’s maybe trying to sabotage [it]. It’s like, we sell 100 tickets in Birmingham instead of the 500 that the size of the room is, and I’m embarrassed, so I drink a bottle of Fernet before the show and put on a wig and a costume to try to hide. I didn’t know how to look these people in the eye that liked me. It was a lot of shame. Like, “I don’t deserve this.” But then also, if it didn’t go well, I was like, “Fuck you guys! Where are the other 400 people that should be here?” An insane self-hatred loop, which then leads to resentment, me resenting my manager, like, why am I on the road again?
I was opening for Role Model in February of 2025, and I was like, “Fuck these kids. Why is the mid-30s alcoholic opening for the teeny bopper?” All my songs are about being in toxic relationships or depression, and these girlies are literally longing to have their first heartbreak. So, I’m like, “Who’s got their heart broken?” People are like, “I would love to.” I’m like, “Oh shit, y’all are not ready for me. Y’all are gonna really like this in a decade, but you’re not even there.” And then just being angry, you can’t look yourself in the eyes, then you just start spitting hate into every corner.
What was your next step after reaching your lowest point?
I went to coffee, and I wrote this letter on the hotel notepad. And I just took pictures of the letter and sent it to my band and my management and my label. And I think that’s all I could manage to do. I don’t think I could really talk to someone. In the letter, I was like, “I’m tired. I don’t like how my brain is thinking right now. My brain is going to pretty quitting places, and I don’t think that any of us want that, but if we all want to do this, I need to stop.”
I spent the better part of a year trying to figure out who I am without it all. But we still had some tours, which was hilarious. My band had a culture of partying, so the boys were still doing their thing, so I’m just sitting in a hotel room, like stretching, watching a documentary, and then the group chat is like, “Look, Steve’s got his shirt off at the pool hall!” It’s like, “Fuck, I’m missing that.”
When did you start writing and recording for King of Having Fun?
Honestly, some of them I started writing summer 2024, right after Country came out. It’s interesting that “Do Something Productive” starts the record, just talking about how manic my cycle is, and knowing that I was aware of that even in 2024, when I was in the full-blown, “I made it, and I’m so happy, and I’m drunk all the time.” [Laughs] But then a lot of the tunes really didn’t come until the next year, like March, April, May, and then we wrote a lot of them in the studio. So that was June.
Where did you record?
We had a rehearsal studio down the street from my house in East Nashville. That was where we rehearsed for Coachella, and we just loved it there so much. We asked the guy that was renting it to us — his name is Nicolas Dobbratz, and he goes by Dobby — if he wouldn’t mind if we made a record there. We sort of just piecemealed some stuff and turned [it into] this hippie carpeted fucking rehearsal space that shares a wall with a commercial bakery, which is incredible, just smelling cakes and scones all day. We put together this thing, and it was barely good enough. And that’s exactly what I needed.
How did you come up with the title?
I wanted to call it Rock because I thought that it rocked more than the last one. [Laughs] I called the last one Country because we made it on Music Row. And so I just thought, what a cool, fun career arc to be like, “Hey, that one’s called Country. This one’s called Rock, and it’s called Rock because there’s some electric guitars on it.” And my A&R was like, “No offense, but when I have to go tell people at Billboard or radio or Universal about your new album, why am I telling them it’s called Rock?” And I was like, “Because it’s fucking funny, dude. Like, what do you mean?” I was clapping back at one of my A&Rs who I famously disagree with, and I’m just like, “Fuck you!” And I was like, “All right, PJ, what do you think’s a better title?” And he’s like, “King of Having Fun.” And I was like, “Fuck! The little suit got it. I hate it. He’s so right.”
It’s way better of a title. It was just a song on the album. I wrote it with Josh Gilligan, who plays the lap steel in Medium Build, when I was pretty freshly sober and I slowly realized that it was the ethos. It encapsulates the entire idea of what I’m talking about. It’s everything. It is the death of the party guy, right? It’s like he put the booze down and started distance running but also got in touch with his inner child. It’s like everything about the record should be called King of Having Fun. It was completely right. I just was so mad he was right. And then Charli [XCX] put out Rock Music, and then we were all like, “Thank god!”
And now you’re on the cusp of releasing this album into the world. How do you feel?
I’m excited for it to come out. There’s a little bit of a mourning period when you give everybody everything, because then it’s a product and it’s theirs. But that’s the bargain you make to then go play it live and hear them sing it back. You spend so much time in your head being like, “this is me versus me. This is me versus my last record. This is me versus the fucking label A&R that wants me to change the name. This is me versus Role Model, or this is me versus Geese.” Like, if this album doesn’t destroy Zach Bryan, then I’m fucked. You know? It’s all this fucking awful internal hatred, self-sabotage head speak, and then you give it out, and then normies I went to high school with text me, and they’re like, “Bro, ‘Home Depot’ is art. It’s platinum in me and Kayleigh’s house this week.” And I’m just like, goddamnit! That’s so sweet! That’s really cool. The breeders from high school like my songs, and I love that, and I’m grateful. So I’m excited to give it away.
Medium Build
Beth Garrabrant
