LD. JUST NOW: Trump ERUPTS After Sabrina Carpenter Says “You Don’t Own My Songs or My Story” on Live TV 🎤🔥 .LD
What started as a glossy, made-for-TV town hall on “Politics & Pop Culture” turned into a raw standoff over art, ownership, and power—live, unedited, and impossible to walk back.
For most of the evening, the format was light: a live audience, a late-night style set, and questions about how politics seeps into movies, social media, and music. Former President Donald Trump and pop star Sabrina Carpenter were booked as “unlikely co-guests” to debate cancel culture, celebrity activism, and the role of artists in elections.
The tension had been simmering since the show began. Carpenter had already taken a subtle swipe, saying she “doesn’t love when politicians treat songs like campaign merch,” while Trump joked that “nobody’s complaining when their streams go up.”
But the polite distance snapped the moment a college student stepped up to the mic and asked a pointed question:
“Sabrina, how do you feel when your songs are played at rallies you don’t support—and President Trump, do you think artists should have a say in how their music is used in politics?”
The host smiled, sensing TV gold.
“Perfect question,” he said. “Sabrina, you first.”
“You don’t own my songs or my story”
Carpenter took a breath, gripping the handheld mic instead of leaving it on the stand.
“Look,” she began, “I write music about heartbreak, boundaries, growing up, trying to figure out who you are. I don’t write it as a jingle for anybody’s campaign.”
She turned toward Trump—not aggressively, but unmistakably.
“When my songs show up at rallies I don’t support, with messages I don’t believe in, it feels like my voice is being used against me,” she said. “So, let me be really clear tonight: you don’t own my songs or my story.”
The crowd reacted instantly—cheers from one side, scattered boos from the other. Trump raised his eyebrows, half amused, half annoyed.
Carpenter continued before he could jump in.
“Music is supposed to be a bridge,” she said. “It’s supposed to connect people who feel totally different but somehow hear themselves in the same lyrics. When you blast it at rallies where people are chanting about who belongs and who doesn’t, you’re turning it into a weapon instead of a bridge.”
“You should be grateful for the exposure”
Trump leaned toward his mic, the smile gone.
“Sabrina, I think you should be grateful for the exposure,” he said. “Your songs are played at very big events—huge. People hear them, they look you up, they buy the music. That’s good for you. That’s good for your career. Nobody ever complained about being played in front of tens of thousands of people until I came along.”
He gestured toward the audience.
“Every time somebody decides they’re ‘too good’ to let their music be associated with my supporters, they’re insulting millions of Americans who pay for the tickets, who buy the albums, who stream the songs. They’re saying, ‘I want your money, but not your politics.’ That’s very arrogant.”
Boos and applause collided from opposite sides of the studio. The host tried to interject with a joke, but the moment had already shifted.
Carpenter’s expression hardened.
“Art isn’t a rental car”
“With respect,” she replied, “this isn’t about being ‘too good’ for your supporters. It’s about consent.”
She turned back to the student who’d asked the question.
“Art isn’t a rental car,” she said. “You don’t just swipe your card and get to drive it in any direction you want, forever. Songs carry stories. When those stories are tied to rallies or messages the artist never agreed with, it changes the story itself.”
Trump shook his head.
“Nobody owns the crowd,” he shot back. “You put your music out there, it’s in the world. People are free to enjoy it however they want. That’s called freedom. If they like me and they like your song, that’s not a crime—that’s America.”
The line got a loud cheer from his section of the audience.
Carpenter didn’t retreat.
“Fans are free to love whatever they want,” she said. “This isn’t about fans. This is about power. When the most powerful people in the country use someone else’s art without their support, they’re borrowing that artist’s credibility, that emotion, that energy—without asking.”
She paused, then added:
“If you respect someone’s work, you should respect their ‘no’ just as much as their ‘yes’.”
The crowd splits, the clip goes viral
The host finally stepped in, trying to steer the conversation toward legal specifics—music licensing, public performance rights, the difference between public events and campaign endorsements. But the crowd was locked on the emotional core.
One side booed at the idea that artists could “dictate politics.” The other side cheered every time Carpenter mentioned consent, boundaries, and ownership.
Trump doubled down.
“Celebrities think they should run the country because they have followers,” he said. “But followers aren’t votes. You can sing, you can act, great—but don’t tell hard-working Americans where they’re allowed to play the music they love.”
Sabrina gave a small, incredulous laugh.
“I’m not trying to run the country,” she responded. “I’m just not going to let the country run me—and that includes my songs.”
Within minutes, clips of her line—“You don’t own my songs or my story”—hit social media. Fan accounts, political commentators, and meme pages all grabbed the same freeze-frame: Sabrina standing firm, mic in hand, Trump mid-gesture beside her, the crowd a blur of raised phones behind them.
Some captions praised her for “drawing a line between art and propaganda.” Others mocked her as “ungrateful for free promotion.” Arguments exploded in the comments about what “ownership” really means once a song hits streaming platforms.
Inside the studio, the conversation moved on to other topics, but the energy never quite recovered. The town hall had promised a gentle conversation about politics and pop culture; instead, it had exposed the fault line running straight through both:
Who decides what a song means—the person who wrote it, or the crowd that sings along?
Tonight’s fictional broadcast didn’t settle that question. But it did give the internet a new moment to replay, dissect, and fight about.
And at the center of it is a single sentence, delivered calmly in a storm of noise:
“You don’t own my songs or my story.”
