Anyone who knows me knows that I have a not-so-illicit distaste for Gracie Abrams. 

Perhaps it is her poor breath control and lackluster vocals, the obnoxious, audible gasps of air between every other word, her hasty lyricism, or—most respectfully—the fact that she brings virtually nothing contemporary or any untapped talent to the music industry. But whichever one it may be, I am certain that the second I hear a single stanza of her music coming from the auxiliary cord of someone’s car speakers, I will open the door and jump out. 

All that being said, I made within myself a sacred vow not to associate myself with Abrams or any of her auxiliaries. So, when I first heard about Who’s the Clown?, a 12-track debut album set to be released this Aug. by singer-songwriter Audrey Hobert—the woman who had ghostwritten a large portion of Abrams’ work in the past—I was understandably pessimistic. It was my general assumption that Hobert would provide the same stale interpolation of popular Taylor Swift songs, a parameter that defines much of Abrams’ discography. 

Still, even I had to admit something was intriguing about Hobert. She’d been the name buried in the trenches of Abrams’ work and possibly the invisible support beams holding up the little tolerability I can find in it. So when I learned she was finally stepping out from behind the curtain, I braced for either a disaster or a revelation.

Thankfully, upon my first listen, I was met with the latter. 

What unravels in Who’s the Clown? feels equal parts satire and sincerity, differentiating her from the cookie-cutter formula that I felt was inevitable based on her past musical association. As I would soon learn, a defining characteristic of this album lies largely in its comedic element. When executed perfectly, Hobert emulates the same melodramatic mood of a maudlin middle school sleepover—in the very best way possible. 

That being said, the album unfortunately opens on shaky ground with the pretentiously titled “I like to touch people.” While the later tracks weave wit and nuance into playful confession, this first attempt feels hollow, stripped of the impish storytelling and lyrical potency that animate the record elsewhere. Throughout the 1 minute 34 second runtime, I found myself waiting for the song’s efficacy to emerge, yet I found nothing. Not only was there barely a rhyme scheme, but the lyrics seemed severely underdeveloped and underwhelming. Intended, perhaps, as cheeky and silly, it instead came across as the weakest track of the project, a lackluster beginning that contributes little to the album’s broader vision. 

Thankfully, the album makes a quick recovery with its second track, “Sue me.” This TikTok-viral single encompasses an intersection between buzzing electro-synth and conversational lyricism. Sassy, unapologetic, and beautifully gauche, Hobert sets the tone for the rest of the album with her playful interjections and high tempo, remorselessly singing, “And I’m sorry that your dog died / Sorry that I’m like your dream bride / You’ll go to Heaven and I’ll go to Hell in the meantime.”

My only critique lies in the chorus—a simple, merry-go-round lyric of “Sue me” repeated over and over again. It proves to be obnoxiously repetitive by the third chorus, clashing with the subtle intricacy of the previous verses. All that compounded, I would ascertain that the lyrical uniqueness of the verses overshadows the bland, cardboard delivery of the chorus. 

Other tracks, such as “Bowling Alley” and “Thirst Trap,” stand out as masterclasses in self-aware pop irony. “Bowling Alley,” a bouncy anthem accompanied by perfectly awkward writing, captures the tragicomedy of feeling the need to act performative when, in reality, this gig pales in comparison to a tranquil night alone. Hobert croons about her ambivert internal struggle, writing, “So wrong to think everyone loves me / And they need to be around me all the time / But I’ll be honest, yeah, the nightgown kinda sounds nice.” An apt reflection of the album’s tone as a whole, it’s a flippant premise, but delivered with such conviction that it transcends parody. 

“Thirst Trap,” one of my personal favorite tracks on the album, is a wryly self-referential study in puppy love and performance. Through a commentary on her own vanity, Hobert articulates her anguish with infatuation, writing plainly, “I’m takin’ thirst traps in the mirror in my room / I think I look bad so I change the lightin’ / I used to kick back, watchin’ movies and the news / But now I’m lame, it’s such a shame, I used to be so super cool.” Feeling compelled by someone who makes her look less kindly on herself, her raw honesty compounds into frustration, building into a critique of how desire can often be distorting. Hilariously voyeuristic but genuine, Hobert expresses a sort of reflexiveness that is rare, admitting that the object of her attention has turned her love into an embarrassing spectacle. 

Towards the closing half of the album, listeners will be met with another cornucopia of emotional and tonal experimentation. “Sex and the City” subverts the glamour insinuated by the television-named title and instead provides an insightful observation of the imagined allure of city life versus its realistic mundanity, writing, “This isn’t Sex and the City / Nobody’s watching me write in my room.”

“Phoebe,” a succinct comparison drawn between herself and cult-favorite Friends sitcom character, Phoebe Buffay, takes a more optimistic turn when Hobert navigates the absurdity of self-worth, ultimately reconciling herself with her flaws and enthusiastically singing, “Now I don’t sweat the acne / It’s a b*tch, but it goes away / And who cares if I’m pretty? / I feel like I’m Phoebe / I feel like a whole lot.”

In stepping out of the constricting sandbox of her work with Abrams, Hobert proves herself as an artist whose voice is unmistakably her own—clever, awkward, and refreshingly human. Hobert captures the minutiae of longing, insecurity, and fleeting joy with an intimacy that makes the listener feel both complicit, comforted, and validated by the gleefully ridiculous consciousness that she brings track by track. By embracing the slightly uncomfortable and the humorously relatable aspects of life, she has created a record that is as emotionally resonant as it is entertaining. Her debut is a rare example of pop music that is neither self-gratifying nor deprecating, but rather lovably absurd. Rest assured, I am not only excited for what she will bring going forward, but I am confident that if I ever hear her over the aux cord of my car, I would delightfully stay put throughout the whole drive.