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\n Songs pushing self-acceptance have permeated the pop sphere for decades, from Christina Aguilera’s melodramatic \u201cBeautiful\u201d to Lizzo\u2019s amp-up confidence pop, but Hobert\u2019s take on the form feels especially resonant in an age of ubiquitous Ozempic and absurdist use cases of Facetune. Hobert\u2019s lyrics \u2014 which generally revolve around the pain and thrill of desire \u2014 are not so much a brazen you got this, girl<\/i> mantra, as they are authentic reflections on grappling with insecurity.\n <\/p>\n
\n As I stood listening and swaying to the community singalong at Hobert\u2019s 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\u2019s 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\u2019s 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.\n <\/p>\n
\n Does its crowd-pleasing quality make Hobert the titular clown of her album title, Who\u2019s the Clown?<\/i> Not necessarily. In its relatability and universality, in its in-on-the-joke quality, Hobert\u2019s music renders all of us the clown. It\u2019s 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.\n <\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n