Songs pushing self-acceptance have permeated the pop sphere for decades, from Christina Aguilera’s melodramatic “Beautiful” to Lizzo’s amp-up confidence pop, but Hobert’s take on the form feels especially resonant in an age of ubiquitous Ozempic and absurdist use cases of Facetune. Hobert’s lyrics — which generally revolve around the pain and thrill of desire — are not so much a brazen you got this, girl mantra, as they are authentic reflections on grappling with insecurity.
As I stood listening and swaying to the community singalong at Hobert’s show, I realized that a very particular emotional, musical itch was being scratched. In recent years I had a times felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of confessionalist singer-songwriter music being released, much of it firmly inspired by the likes of Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers, both of whose distinct styles have become part of modern pop’s musical DNA (Swift for her musical monologues and Bridgers for her knack for her specificity of detail). Hobert, clearly inspired by and in musical conversation with both, offers her own spin at singer-songwriter pop: one rooted in the rhythms of comedy and plotlines. Each of Hobert’s songs feel like a tight sitcom episode, with tension and resolution. It even has a laugh track in all of us, as Hobert consistently offers up one-liners that beckon guffaws. The music is vulnerable, yes, but it is also reliably entertaining.
Does its crowd-pleasing quality make Hobert the titular clown of her album title, Who’s the Clown? Not necessarily. In its relatability and universality, in its in-on-the-joke quality, Hobert’s music renders all of us the clown. It’s not embarrassing, though, to be a jokerster in this universe. At Brooklyn Paramount, we were all in on the joke together, singing along in the collective circus.
