Audrey Hobert’s Who’s the Clown?: Finally, the Straight Girls are Getting Weird!
by Kate Martin
These days, it seems that to be a relevant pop girl is to chart the woes of an increasingly tragic dating scene, where a woman’s impulse to be desired clashes with her astute awareness of men’s deficiencies. Miraculously, this demoralization has bred an era of energetic, sugar-sweet pop, with playful indictments of boyfriends and hookups strung over bubbly synths. Sabrina Carpenter has settled nicely into her brand of horny condescension, Olivia Rodrigo relays her most embarrassing encounters over anthemic pop-rock, and now Audrey Hobert, a newbie on the scene, comes out swinging with what is perhaps the most honest and comedic take yet on Gen-Z heterofatalism.
Before releasing her debut album Who’s the Clown?, Hobert was steadily honing her pop rhythm and wit from behind the scenes. She co-wrote many of the songs on Gracie Abrams’ The Secret of Us, including “That’s So True”, which achieved global success and was praised for its breathless, stream-of-consciousness-style flow. The two are best friends from childhood, and, with fathers in the entertainment industry, they are both certified nepo-babies. Though their sounds so far share a DNA, their writerly philosophies appear quite distinct. If Gracie Abrams has drawn criticism for being too dull and generic—pretty girl-pop reminiscent of a watered-down Taylor Swift, then Audrey Hobert is making faces and dancing jerkily in her patterned tights while narrating a persona that demands you to, at the very least, cock your head.
Her debut single “Sue Me” places her at a party, a likely haunt in the album that was to come, chanting “Sue me I want to be wanted” as she nonchalantly pursues her ex. It’s wordy, wiley, and somehow also incredibly infectious, showcasing her chops for hook-writing and her pulse on the tribulations of being “normal”. Over and over again in Who’s the Clown?, our protagonist laments going out, finally does, tries to get an unworthy man’s attention, and then, with any luck, goes home with him. Rinse and repeat. She tells stories with so much zeal and casual charm that you feel like you’re a friend at the post-game debrief, nodding ferociously at each new turn of events or self-effacing tidbit.
Standout “Sex and the City” most intricately narrates one of her night-out encounters, comparing her romantic life to Carrie Bradshaw while admitting that her reality is not nearly so glamorous. It’s at once shameful and freeing to realize “this isn’t Sex and the City/ Nobody’s watching me write in my room,” and yet something still draws her to that art dude’s apartment, despite her confessions that he doesn’t have a headboard and won’t even bother to microwave her a pizza pocket. The chorus is effectively the song she hears playing in the Uber home from the club or the hookup, cradling her through the other side of drunkenness as she begs the driver to turn it up. The best of Hobert’s songwriting lies in her attention to these kinds of relatable yet unspoken feelings—maybe the softest place to land in your twenties is just the familiar comfort of your favorite song at the end of the night.
“Chateau”, another album highlight, takes us to an industry party, where Hobert reads the party guests’ minds and deadpans “Are we legally bound to stand in a circle looking around?” She decidedly does not want to be a “cool” girl, though watches that one indie darling’s mannerisms and interactions with an obsessive fascination. The breath granted to these and other inside thoughts makes Who’s the Clown? the ultimate show of relatable pop. Hobert may have grown up with clear view of the industry, but she never quite relented to it, and believably maintains her position as a watcher, equal parts jealous and cynical.
What distinguishes Audrey Hobert in the arena of man-hating pop is her lack of portrayed sexuality, even while exploring sexual themes. She doesn’t legitimize situationship politics with an inviting tone or sultry visual; the men in her songs are held at arm’s length while the listener is treated to playful vulnerability. Even a song like “Thirst Trap”, which catches her in an impulse to be alluring, is wrapped in a higher-order sense of apathy: “I’m taking thirst traps in the mirror in my room/ I think I look bad, but it doesn’t matter.” All of this pining and cringing and pining again comes to a satisfying conclusion in “Phoebe”, where she realizes that being a little weird might just be her superpower. She sings “I think I’ve got a fucked up face/ And that thought used to haunt me/ ‘Til I fell in its sweet embrace” and you feel like you might start crying—that is, if the music didn’t have all the syrupy charm of a Disney Channel theme song. All in all, Audrey Hobert speaks to modern day romantic torpor and insecurities with delightfully poignant precision; plus—thank God—the girl knows how to party.
