WHO’S THE CLOWN BY AUDREY HOBERT: ALBUM ANALYSIS

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Audrey Hobert is squeaking our clown noses in her debut album, “Who’s the Clown.” Capturing the tension between vulnerability and self-expression, Hobert navigates themes of love, heartbreak, self-consciousness, and personal growth with candid lyricism and sharp wit. Across each track, she balances introspection with humor, exploring both the highs of fleeting excitement and the lows of emotional turmoil, all while maintaining a distinctive voice that is relatable and deeply personal. The album is a portrait of modern young adulthood, where social pressures, romantic entanglements, and self-image collide, and Hobert’s storytelling invites listeners to both empathize with and reflect on their own experiences.

“I like to touch people”

Hobert opens the album with a confession that is both funny and unsettling, repeating the phrase “I like to touch people” until it becomes less of a quirky line and more of a mantra about craving closeness in both physical and emotional forms. The song paints the image of the narrator at a crowded party, pressing a hand to a stranger’s chest and creating intimacy out of thin air, chasing the thrill of instant recognition that feels far bigger than small talk ever could. By the second verse, Hobert reveals the habit behind the humor, admitting that it is the reaction they crave most, watching someone double over in laughter or nod along wide-eyed, only to lose interest once the moment slips into conversation. That hunger for impact is traced back to childhood, growing up with a mother who always gave too much, leaving the narrator with their own tangle of validation-seeking impulses. “I like to touch people” sets the stage for the record with wit and plainspoken honesty, showing how intimacy and validation can blur together until they feel like the same thing.

“Sue me”

Hobert’s debut single is the kind of introduction that feels both reckless and sharply self-aware, which explains why it immediately caught fire on TikTok. Released May 9, 2025, and slyly teased by her best friend Gracie Abrams onstage the very same day, the song captures the duality of wanting to break free from old habits while still circling back to familiar chaos. The first verse sets the tone with laser-sharp specificity: Audrey already knows her ex will be at the party, already knows what he’ll be drinking, and yet she’s there too, “breaking patterns” while ironically falling back into them. This push and pull between growth and regression drives the song’s emotional tension, especially as the chorus erupts in a plea, “Sue me, I wanna be wanted.” The second verse holds one of Audrey’s sharpest lyrical punches: “When he’s all in his Amazon Basics,” a line she’s called her favorite because it blends humor with honesty, poking fun at her ex’s plain wardrobe while exposing how attraction lingers in the most ordinary details. From there, the song grows brasher, the bridge invoking “kismet” to describe the feeling of inevitability between two people who maybe should never have been together in the first place, yet can’t resist circling back. The outro ties everything together in Audrey’s signature unfiltered tone, as she veers from apologizing about his dead dog to promising to see him in a Best Buy, trivializing heartbreak by grounding it in everyday absurdity. “Sue Me” is as much about reclaiming chaos as it is about vulnerability, a debut that doesn’t smooth over contradictions but instead thrives in them, building a portrait of someone who knows better yet admits they still want to be wanted.

“Drive”

The exhaustion here steers through every line, and it is devastatingly relatable. She builds the song on the image of putting her car in drive as a metaphor for survival, a way to keep moving forward even when the night leaves her feeling hollow. The opening verse is full of self-aware contradictions: she kicks her shoes off and claims she is feeling awesome, immediately correcting herself with a muttered “that’s a lie.” From the jump, the song admits that pretending to be fine does not actually get her anywhere, but she still goes through the motions. The party scene in the second verse sharpens the contrast, she is surrounded by men in dollar store suits, their disguises flimsy, their stories rehearsed, and yet she cannot escape the weight of being pushed aside in the very spaces where she tries to belong. The track grows heavier with every detail, like memorizing some guy’s boring life story only to feel buried under it. Still, Audrey refuses to stall out. Instead, she reclaims agency through the chorus: the repetition of “put it in drive again” becomes a mantra, something you whisper to yourself when the night feels unbearable and the only option left is to keep moving. The imagery blooms fully in the bridge, where she is driving down the 405 at dawn, top down, clinging to the wind like it might erase everything that happened hours earlier. Even in that freedom there is an ache, the thought of “in another life” suggesting that what she longs for always feels just out of reach. Yet the refrain insists that sometimes all you can do is keep driving, keep breathing, keep choosing motion. “Drive” is not a song about healing so much as it is about endurance, and in that way it captures one of the rawest truths of the album.

“Wet Hair”

Soaking up that reckless, half-drunken impulse to call someone you know you shouldn’t, and Hobert threads the moment with a kind of cinematic mundanity that makes it sting even more. The song begins in her house, where she admits to drinking just to feel normal, the walls creaking around her like old nerves she no longer bothers to check. By the time she arrives at the bar, she’s already battling overthinking with detachment, trying to mask the weight of what she feels under the casual guise of “shooting the shit.” The repeated image of showing up with wet hair becomes the perfect symbol of pretending not to care, as if walking into a night half-prepared and underdressed makes the encounter less deliberate, less serious. Yet, when her ex finally appears, everything slips: the details sharpen into his too-big shirt, his newly dyed hair, the shock of how tall he seems. What began as a game of nonchalance unravels into intimacy, the kind that feels both dangerous and inevitable. Hobert’s voice carries that conflict of wanting to keep things light but falling straight into the weight of memory, making “Wet Hair” a song about how denial, bravado, and longing can all live in the same breath. It’s messy, embarrassing, magnetic, and deeply human.

“Bowling alley”

This track perfectly captures Hobert’s sense of vulnerability and the tension between authenticity and performance. She opens with a moment of frustration, driving home angry and trying to reset her mood with a joint, describing herself as the “naked neighbor,” someone exposed and unfiltered while everyone else seems more guarded. There is a self-awareness here, a questioning of whether being this raw is a choice or just something that happens to her. That vulnerability carries through to the chorus, where she considers whether anyone truly cares if she goes to a party, and then admits with dry humor that the bowling alley does sound nice, a small nod to the simple pleasures in life. When she arrives at the party and hits a strike, she experiences a fleeting moment of recognition, the kind that only comes when you do something that stands out, even as a “lucky beginner.” The repeated pre-chorus about praying to God, the birds, and the bees adds a whimsical, almost ritualistic layer to her nightly struggles, grounding the song in her ongoing search for control and meaning. The second chorus broadens the metaphor, reflecting both on the music industry and on her own life, balancing the glamour and performance of being a musician with the appeal of ordinary, personal comforts, like a nightgown and quiet moments. The song closes with an Irish goodbye, quietly leaving the party after claiming her small victory, reinforcing the idea that recognition and attention are fleeting and that sometimes the simplest, most private wins matter the most. “Bowling alley” is playful and self-aware while also deeply human, exploring the push and pull between being seen, being successful, and simply being herself.

“Thirst Trap”

A piercingly honest look into Hobert’s struggle with self-image and the way insecurities can take over every part of daily life. From the opening lines, she’s pacing, overthinking, and questioning herself, a portrait of someone consumed by the constant awareness of how she looks and how others might perceive her. The pre-chorus paints the intensity of this obsession, staying up late, zoning out, and losing touch with hobbies she once enjoyed as her mind loops endlessly over her appearance and every small interaction. The chorus turns the act of taking selfies into a kind of compulsion, a ritual of adjusting lighting, angles, and posture in an effort to capture a version of herself she can tolerate, reflecting the deep anxiety and self-consciousness that comes with being hypercritical of one’s body. Verses reveal how this fixation colors her life, turning casual routines into exercises in control, showing the tension between wanting to look good and feeling constantly inadequate. The bridge sharpens this sense of mental gymnastics, as she imagines herself from someone else’s perspective, analyzing her face, her body, and her presence in obsessive detail, highlighting the pressure to curate herself not just for others but to make herself feel acceptable. By the outro, there’s a fragile mix of defiance and resignation; she continues taking photos, capturing moments she can scrutinize endlessly, knowing that the act itself is both empowering and punishing. “Thirst Trap” is raw, confessional, and unflinching, turning the often hidden inner struggle of body dysmorphia into a striking, human, and painfully relatable narrative.

“Chateau”

This journey follows Hobert’s acute sense of alienation amid a setting that should feel glamorous but instead highlights her discomfort and detachment. From the start, she positions herself as an observer, noting small slights and awkward interactions. Hobert mentions the long dress in the wind, her companion’s thoughtless comments, and the way people circulate through the room while leaving her out of the social choreography. The chorus makes her feelings unmistakable, as she contrasts the opulence of the A-list chateau setting with the simplicity and familiarity of high school, questioning why she’s even there and expressing a desire to escape. Throughout the verses, Hobert’s keen eye picks up on the performative aspects of the crowd, from an indie girl hiding behind sunglasses to a boyfriend lost at the bar, underscoring the disconnect between appearances and reality. The bridge emphasizes a mix of defiance and resignation, repeating that she doesn’t care about status, connections, or social hierarchy, yet the repetition also conveys the tension of trying to convince herself of this truth while still feeling out of place. By the outro, the song leaves a lingering sense of ironic detachment. “Chateau” is a wry, relatable take on navigating social facades, portraying the quiet dissatisfaction and subtle critique that comes with standing on the edges of a world that feels both alluring and alienating.

“Sex and the city”

In the city lights, we find Hobert exploring the tension between fantasy and reality in modern dating. The song opens with a playful acknowledgment that life is nothing like the glossy, scripted world of the show she references. There’s no one observing her, no glamorous narrative guiding her actions. In the verses, she captures the awkwardness and contradictions of trying to feel desired while navigating social spaces: she changes out of her “cool clothes,” goes to bars, and encounters people who fail to live up to expectations. The lyrics balance humor with a subtle melancholy, showing both the excitement and the disappointment of fleeting encounters, and the repeated line “nobody sees me at all is the problem” underscores a sense of invisibility and frustration. The chorus leans into the chaos of a night out, with drunken Uber rides, music blasting, and half-hearted connections that leave her simultaneously exhilarated and lost. By the bridge, the intimacy is awkward and transient, highlighting the emptiness behind brief physical or emotional sparks, while the repeated questioning “If this is it, then what is it all for?” which drives home the longing for meaning beyond these fleeting moments. 

“Shooting Star”
A beam that captures the thrill and turbulence of a chaotic relationship through the lens of nightlife and raw self-expression. The song opens with a club scene, where being “drunk at the club” and craving attention becomes both a literal and metaphorical way of seeking validation. Hobert balances honesty and defiance in the chorus, acknowledging her desire to be noticed and asserting her personality unapologetically. The pre-chorus highlights her role in managing the dynamics around her partner, smoothing out tensions and giving structure to the chaos, while the repeated line about dropkicking “like it’s a shot in the dark” suggests both unpredictability and power in her approach to relationships. Throughout the track, Hobert navigates the tension of recognizing someone’s flaws while choosing to stay, embracing the emotional highs and lows even when it “hurts” her. There’s a constant oscillation between self-awareness and surrender to impulse, reflected in her indulgence in drinks, music, and club energy. The imagery of mistaken “shooting stars” symbolizes misread signals of perfection or idealized love, acknowledging disappointment yet clinging to the excitement. By blending candidness, vulnerability, and bold humor, the song portrays a relationship and a lifestyle that are messy, intoxicating, and strangely compelling, reinforcing Hobert’s signature knack for honesty wrapped in wit and vivid imagery.

“Don’t go back to his ass”

Delivering a bomb of blunt and empowering messages right from the title, this track leaves no room for ambiguity. Feeling like an intimate conversation with a friend, warning against the magnetic pull of a toxic ex while vividly illustrating the emotional fallout of returning to old patterns. Hobert paints scenes with precise, human details: crying alone at 6 p.m., the city humming with background noise, and the ex performing his charm for someone new, pearls and all. The lyrics highlight the tension between fleeting attraction and long-term disappointment, showing how humor and wit can make a manipulative person seem more appealing than they actually are. Lines like “I know he’s funny, but baby, don’t go back to his ass” use humor as both a critique and a survival tool, acknowledging the magnetic draw of charm while reinforcing boundaries. The chorus repeats the bold title phrase like a mantra, a reminder that some relationships are “traps” that never last. The bridge takes on a protective, almost guardian-like tone, stressing that self-worth should always outweigh nostalgia or infatuation. With biting humor, vivid urban imagery, and frank advice, the song turns heartbreak into a lesson in personal empowerment, making this unapologetically titled track both memorable and motivating.

“Phoebe”

This introspective deep cut is a vivid meditation on self-acceptance, insecurity, and the subtle triumphs of embracing one’s own quirks and imperfections. The song follows a protagonist who moves to New York with the promise of stardom dangled before her, but even as she navigates the excitement of a new city, she faces moments of self-doubt and longing. Hobert’s lyrics intertwine humor and honesty, from walking on the beach mulling over unreciprocated feelings to finally settling into the comfort of watching Friends and connecting with the character Joey, whose presence underscores both companionship and the limits of fantasy. The chorus highlights body dysmorphia and self-consciousness, particularly around her face and acne, yet evolves into a declaration of resilience: the protagonist stops obsessing over societal standards of beauty and begins to embrace her uniqueness. References to color clashes in clothing and feeling “counted out and homely” show the tension between external appearance and internal validation, but these insecurities are balanced with playful self-reflection and humor, echoing the quirks of Phoebe Buffay herself. Hobert’s narrative celebrates the messy, uneven path to self-love, acknowledging moments of loneliness while framing them as part of a larger journey toward confidence. The repeated affirmations, “I feel like I’m Phoebe, I feel like a whole lot” capture the paradoxical embrace of identity, blending awkwardness, sexual confidence, and unapologetic self-expression into a cohesive emotional statement. In essence, “Phoebe” portrays the beauty in imperfection, the joy of eccentricity, and the quiet power of finding self-worth in one’s own skin, making it both a personal anthem and a relatable reflection on navigating life’s contradictions with humor, honesty, and grace.

“Silver Jubilee”

Here Hobert serves as a celebratory and liberating closing track, encapsulating themes of escapism, spontaneity, and self-expression. The lyrics convey a protagonist breaking away from the monotony of everyday obligations “workin’ for the man” to pursue a night of excitement and personal freedom. Hobert uses vivid snapshots of nightlife in Los Angeles, referencing friends, drinks, and fleeting romantic encounters, to paint a scene that is both glamorous and relatable. Despite the indulgence and chaos, there’s an underlying sense of grounded self-awareness: the narrator acknowledges the unpredictability of relationships, the risks of emotional investment, and the tension between desire and reality. Humor and playfulness are threaded throughout, whether in the casual call-outs to friends, throwing shots back, or navigating awkward social encounters, giving the song a light-hearted yet authentic feel. The repeated affirmations “I’ma live it up like my life starts now” emphasize the importance of seizing the moment and finding joy in impermanence, suggesting that fulfillment comes less from control and more from embracing spontaneity. In this way, Silver Jubilee closes the album on an empowering note, balancing revelry with introspection and highlighting Hobert’s ability to capture the thrill, messiness, and humor of living fully in the present.

Ultimately, Hobert’s album is a testament to the power of honesty in music. By blending humor, vulnerability, and sharp social observation, she crafts a world that feels both intimate and expansive, inviting listeners into the highs, lows, and messy in-betweens of her experiences. Each track stands on its own while contributing to a larger narrative of self-discovery, emotional resilience, and the pursuit of authenticity. The album leaves a lasting impression, not just as a collection of songs, but as a reflection of the complexities of modern life and the courage it takes to live it unapologetically.

Listen to Who’s The Clown here.