COWBOY CARTER – SHE BEEN THAT GIRL (A BeyHive-Approved Music Review)
A fan-girl’s intellectual praise dance through Beyoncé’s outlaw Americana era.
ACT I: Y’ALL JUST CATCHIN’ UP – SHE BEEN COUNTRY
Let’s be clear—Beyoncé didn’t just decide to throw on a cowboy hat and do a little country cosplay. She’s been that girl. From the early Destiny’s Child days, rockin’ cowboy hats and fringe fits in photoshoots when they said she was “too country.” That wasn’t gimmick—that was Texas. “They used to say I spoke ‘too country’ / Then the rejection came, said I wasn’t ‘country enough,’” she sings in “AMERIICAN REQUIEM.” That lyric? That wound? It was real.
“Cowboy Carter” is not Beyoncé trying something new—it’s her finally doing it with the spotlight she always earned.
The album’s roots stretch back to the 2016 CMA Awards when Beyoncé and the Dixie Chicks performed together—and the backlash that followed. That moment sparked something in her. A curiosity. A challenge. A reckoning. Instead of walking away from that pain, she dug into the dirt. She studied the genre’s Black origins, the contributions of artists erased from the narrative. And what she created? A sonic reclamation.
“AMERIICAN REQUIEM” isn’t just the album’s opener—it’s a slow-burn overture of resistance. A gospel-blues-country hybrid that floats like a hymn and hits like a manifesto. Her voice cracks open the tension, exposing the history, the erasure, the pain—and the pride.
Then she gives us “BLACKBIIRD,” a Beatles cover that becomes a generational bridge. She invites rising Black country voices—Tanner Adell, Tiera Kennedy, Brittney Spencer, and Reyna Roberts—to harmonize in solidarity. The harmonies are haunting, beautiful, and filled with the weight of those who were never invited to the Opry stage.
“16 Carriages” and “Texas Hold ’Em” serve as her declarative entrance. The first is personal—sixteen carriages carrying away pieces of her past. The second? Pure country joy. It’s the line dance we didn’t know we needed and the reminder that Beyoncé can turn any genre into gold.
Let’s be honest though—the reaction to her crossover wasn’t all applause. Some fans were confused: “Where’s Act II of Renaissance?” Some critics got bold, questioning her place in country as if her Southern drawl and cultural roots weren’t valid. And then there were those who hid racism behind “genre purity.”
To them we say: This ain’t your daddy’s country music. This is Black. This is brilliant. This is Beyoncé.
“Cowboy Carter” is not a country album—it’s a Beyoncé album. A genre-defying, lineage-rooted, deeply researched Americana project. It draws from the Chitlin’ Circuit, from Black rodeo stars, from rock, gospel, country, funk, soul, pop, and hip-hop. Beyoncé’s mission is clear: reclaim the history, challenge the myths, and exalt the legacy of Black artistry in spaces we’ve always belonged.
And let’s not ignore the visual symbolism. That album cover? Beyoncé sits proudly on a white horse, wrapped in an American flag—not to claim a broken system, but to challenge it. To redefine it. This is her rewriting the definition of patriotism through Black femininity, country pride, and cultural power. Her photoshoot with the American flag isn’t about nationalism—it’s about narrative reclamation.
As she once said in “Formation”: “You know you that bitch when you cause all this conversation.” And Cowboy Carter? Baby, it’s got everybody talkin’.
ACT II: LEMONADE DRIPS INTO WHISKEY – LOVE, LUST, AND LOUISIANA
Here’s where Bey takes us home.
“Bodyguard” flips the usual narrative—Beyoncé becomes the shield, not the one protected. “Protector” makes me soft every time. When Rumi opens the track? Tears. As a mom, I felt that. From Tina’s baby girl to Blue Ivy’s mama, she wraps motherhood in melody. This track is not just a lullaby—it’s a legacy.
“Jolene”? Baby, that’s not a cover—that’s a whole warning label. Dolly pleaded. Beyoncé dares. And when she sings, “I’m still a Creole banjee bitch from Louisiana,” you know she means business. The Creole flair, the Louisiana heat—this is culture. This is history.
Then comes “Daughter.” Whew. It’s raw. It’s chaotic. It’s Beyoncé walking us through the darkest corners of her mind, grappling with inherited pain and rage. It’s poetic therapy with an aria tucked inside. Then there’s “Alligator Tears,” where she sings about being loved through manipulation, questioning devotion even while pouring hers out freely. The vulnerability? It’s beautiful.
LEVII’S JEANS: WHERE LEGACY MEETS LYRICS
“LEVII’S JEANS” isn’t just a cheeky, flirty duet with Post Malone—it’s a full-circle moment, stitched into denim with decades of cultural weight. Beyoncé takes this staple of American fashion and wraps it in sensuality, power, and nostalgia. When she sings, “Boy, I’ll let you be my Levi’s jeans / So you can hug that ass all day long,” it’s playful, sure—but it’s also intentional.
Let’s take it back to the ’90s—back when Destiny’s Child was styling themselves in Levi’s because the major fashion houses weren’t checking for them. Before Givenchy or Balmain ever touched her skin, Tina Knowles was making magic out of denim, rhinestones, and rejection. Levi’s was more than a brand—it was a uniform. Accessible. American. Raw and real. Beyoncé’s been repping it since the jump.
So when Cowboy Carter drops a song named “LEVII’S JEANS,” we know it’s not random. It’s a branding flex. A cultural reset. And possibly the most stylish product placement in music history—because Beyoncé doesn’t just wear the jeans, she becomes them. She reimagines Levi’s as a metaphor for love, intimacy, and comfort—something (or someone) that fits just right.
Since the album’s release, Levi’s has seen a massive resurgence in pop culture relevance. Socials erupted with #LeviiChallenge and remixes, and fans began revisiting the history of denim as cultural expression. That’s the Beyoncé effect—transforming what’s worn into what’s worshipped.
“Oh Louisiana” is short but loaded—a tribute to home, to heritage, to memory. It echoes like a postcard from her soul.
ACT III: THE ALTAR, THE AWARDS, AND THE AMEN
This act is for the Grammy haters, the genre snobs, and the folks still acting brand new. On “SWEET ★ HONEY ★ BUCKIIN’,” she rides the beat and delivers the bar: “A-O-T-Y, I ain’t win, I ain’t stuntin’ ’bout them. Take that shit on the chin, come back and fuck up the pen.” That’s the mic drop.
“SPAGHETTII” kicks off with Linda Martell herself—country music’s first commercially successful Black woman—saying: “Genres are a funny little concept, aren’t they?…Some may feel confined.” Beyoncé follows that sentiment by destroying any musical boxes folks tried to keep her in. What follows is a gritty trap beat with swagger, heat, and Shaboozey at her side. It’s Bey saying, “Yes, I’m on your country charts. But I’ll spit a whole 16 right after, too.”
“SMOKE HOUR II” features Willie Nelson dropping a gem of an intro: “Sometimes, you don’t know what you like until someone you trust turns you on to some real good stuff.” He spins her into “Just for Fun,” giving Bey a Texas OG stamp of approval and tying her deeper into country’s DNA.
Then there’s “II MOST WANTED” — the duet we never knew we needed. When Beyoncé and Miley Cyrus teamed up for “II MOST WANTED,” the result was a dusty backroad bop drenched in youthful rebellion and honey-dipped harmonies. It’s giving “Thelma & Louise” meets CMT Unplugged. This is the kind of song that plays in the background of a summer road trip you’ll remember forever.
Then she gives us “II HANDS II HEAVEN”—a desert prayer, a whiskey-soaked hymn to love and faith. Her voice floats like incense, sensual and spiritual all at once. She sings about divine love and grinding hips in the same breath. Holy and horny. That duality? That’s Beyoncé.
“THE LINDA MARTELL SHOW” is a full-circle moment. Martell questions genre boundaries and calls out how exclusionary structures keep certain voices out. Beyoncé doesn’t just share the mic—she turns up the volume.
“YA YA” is pure Southern funk, boot-stomping and unapologetic. “RIIVERDANCE” is a swirl of sensuality, grief, and release. By the time “AMEN” plays, I feel like I’ve been to church, therapy, and a juke joint. She closes with reverence: for herself, for her journey, for the culture.
FINAL VERDICT: YEE-HAW, BUT MAKE IT BLACK
“Cowboy Carter” isn’t just an album. It’s a reclamation. A resistance. A remix of American history. Beyoncé said: You will not whitewash country. You will not erase the Black cowboys, the Chitlin’ Circuit, or the banjo’s African origin. You will not keep boxing Black women into R&B.
She’s a lifelong student of music. She samples wisely, references deeper than surface, and builds cathedrals out of genres. She didn’t just study the greats—she became one.
This album is for the girls who grew up in the South bumpin’ Mike Jones and Shania. For the mamas who made denim and red lips look like country high fashion. For every Black girl who ever heard she was “too country” and “not country enough” in the same breath.
To the confused fans: Expand your ears.
To the racist critics: Take a seat.
To the culture? This one’s for us.
She didn’t go country.
She went home.
