As a born-and-raised Los Angeleno and former arts school kid, I have seen ample teenagers try to launch music careers. Whether it be through SoundCloud or blatant nepotism, only a few stick to it. That said, Audrey Hobert is one of a kind, a diamond in a sea of perfectly average, jaded children who gain satisfaction by driving the Pacific Coast Highway (known locally as PCH, and if you say “the PCH,” it is beyond clear you were not born here, so try again), complaining about the wait at a subpar restaurant while insisting that LA is the best city in the world. Am I guilty? Ever so slightly.
Hobert grew up in Los Angeles as one of four siblings, the daughter of parents in the industry. A tale as old as time in the city of dreams, though not a complete nepotistic receipt. She attended Palisades Charter High School (again, informally known as “Pali” and partially burned down in the Palisades fire), and infamously never got the lead role in a school musical. As a self-proclaimed theater kid and Rachel Berry protégé, she compensated for it through her album. Hobert later attended New York University, where she studied screenwriting and reveled in the East Coast energy many West Coasters are drawn to. After graduating, she gained songwriting experience alongside best friend and foil Gracie Abrams and comedy experience working on Nickelodeon shows; she craves the intense energy and storytelling of a writers’ room.
Audrey Hobert’s debut album, “Who’s The Clown,” fully leans into the duality of Los Angeles and New York City while celebrating being a weirdo, resulting in a no-skip assemblage of a rap-pop configuration that few can successfully execute. However, this is not an album about being a loner or a bore; rather, Hobert feels great about herself, emulating a level of confidence that feels refreshing in a culture rife with inauthenticity. However, Hobert’s self-assuredness and niche perspective reads as a love letter to the connection between New York City and Los Angeles.
Growing up in Los Angeles can feel like living in a small town interconnected through the entertainment industry and competition. A few classic landmarks solidify the aforementioned reality, none more noteworthy than the Chateau Marmont. Every local kid knows the castle-like structure to be a sacred hideaway for celebrities and legendary parties. Hobert accurately encapsulates the anticipation of attending a Grammy afterparty at the Chateau, only to be later faced with inevitable regret. The “Chateau” chorus projects, “I don’t care that I’m at the Chateau with the whole A-list (sorry, God forbid) / Can’t lie, but I’m thinkin’, like, high school was better than this (yeah, it probably is).” Los Angeles embraces modernity in a way that is built solely on connections establishing social credibility. Hobert spins this fact on its head, illuminating the truth that lies behind success in a city like LA through the lens of a monument like the Chateau.
This is later contrasted with “Phoebe,” a melancholic retelling of Hobert’s experience seeking stardom told through the perspective of watching “Friends,” particularly centering on Phoebe Buffay, a carefree and quirky spirit. Hobert, sharing these attributes, grapples with how people perceive her while leveraging her confidence. The song opens with the lyrics, “I went to New York ’cause a man in a suit told me, ‘You’re gonna be a star’ / I said, ‘Yeah, I know,’ but it came out like, ‘What, who, me?'” Canonically, New York represents opportunity and reinvention while simultaneously pulling Hobert away from the comfortable dysfunction of LA. “Phoebe” captures the push and pull between ambition and self-doubt, between belonging and feeling like the odd one out.
Similarly, “Drive” is another anthem that places the listener in a car, the most intimate and known form of transportation in Los Angeles, becoming a sacred ground that is not easily replicated in a city like New York. In LA, driving is externally a display of social status, yet it represents one of the few places where people can be authentic, despite the city’s rush of traffic and lengthy freeways. A sister to “Chateau,” “Drive” analyzes the disappointing culture in Los Angeles, with lines like “In a little black dress trying not to cry / In a stupid dark room with a bunch of guys / In their dollar store suits like a dumb disguise” capturing the inauthentic nature of the city. The emotional instinct to escape LA is a pipedream; a drive down Mulholland or PCH is always the temporary fix. The imagery of “Top down on the 405 / 5 AM / traffic’s light” transforms a ratchet freeway into a sanctuary. Not fitting in anywhere throughout the city, except for one’s car, offers a notable commentary on self-expression, authenticity and finding oneself in a self-involved city.
Finally, “Sex and the City” draws on Hobert’s time living in New York, romanticization and overall admiration. In a world more closed off than ever, New York seems to be an appropriate breeding ground for communication, collaboration and artistry — until it is not. Here, Hobert compares her experience in the city to that of the infamous Carrie Bradshaw, fashion icon and notably hated It girl from “Sex and the City,” who had the job, the man and the coveted apartment window from which she would write her column. Hobert sings about her experience going to a bar: “Nobody sees me at all is the problem / But of course when they do, they’re not the one that I want to.” In Los Angeles, Hobert feels as though the city is constantly watching her, whereas in New York, she feels invisible. The often-romanticized NYC nightlife scene is letting her down, exactly like LA, furthering her insecurity, and her comfortable nature leaves her feeling isolated after leaving the bar. Hobert eventually calls an Uber home: “Didn’t score any guys so I’m lost / That’s all for now, Mr. Driver / I’m rating you five stars.” This direct parallel to “Drive” connects the need to discover oneself behind the wheel in Los Angeles with the soul searching done in the back of an Uber in NYC — a directionless navigation in both cities.
Although a microcosm of the entire “Who’s The Clown,” these songs are a through line for Hobert’s unique lens, which encapsulates the push and pull of two of the most prized cities in the U.S. That said, Hobert reiterates that being a little weird and having some flair is the recipe for living largely, no matter where you are located.