Music Monday: Hobo Johnson’s Infectious Hopelessness

If you’ve ever read a Music Monday piece before, you’ll probably notice that this one is a little different because I’m not going to persuade you to listen to an artist that I like. There’s a thin line between endorsement and appreciation, and I’m aiming to focus on the latter. What you choose to do from there isn’t up to me. 

There are very few people in the music industry who have done what Hobo Johnson has done to the level he’s done it. Though the rapper’s real name is Frank Lopes Jr., he chose to go by the stage name “Hobo Johnson” indicative to his rocky past.

When he was 19, Lopes’ father kicked him out of the house, forcing him into a job at a pizza restaurant and a homeless lifestyle.

Refusing complacency in his circumstances, Lopes turned to ambition and began to write, perform and produce his own music. His original album (since dissolved), “Hobo Johnson’s 94 Corolla”, was conceived and named after his first home.

Lopes’ music went viral after he submitted a video to NPR’s Tiny Desk Contest in 2018. He gained traction almost instantly through his raw and unapologetically jarring writing style. Though he didn’t win the contest, the video he submitted currently sits at nearly 21 million views on Youtube. 

So what’s the problem? If he’s so well liked, why shouldn’t I recommend him to you? Well dear reader, keep doing what you do best (reading, that is).

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Song: “Peach Scone” – Person: Clara Brown 

My experience with Lopes’ music is actually quite systematic. For each song I discuss, the person and experience I associate it with tell the story of my discovery, obsession and disconnect with his music. The person that started it all is Clara Brown.

Much like you reading this, I do not know Clara. At some point in my history on Instagram, I followed her for a reason that remains a mystery to me. 

On one of my many wasteful scrolling sprees, I swiped to see a screenshot she had posted of her Spotify. With a line of praise that probably went something like, “I literally can’t stop listening to this song.” I was convinced (or just had nothing else to do) and heeded her recommendation. 

The song was called “Peach Scone”, and happens to be the song Lopes sang for the video contest. Like the millions of other people who watched that video, I was hooked. 

It was hilarious, tragic and honest. Lopes laments being in love with a girl who has been taken by another man, while simultaneously laughing about his desire just not to be alone. I loved it, I related to it and I memorized it in the following hour. 

At some point, I reached out to the unknown Instagram genius to thank her for this and other songs I discovered through her superior music taste. 

“I would just like to inform you that I have an ongoing playlist of songs recommended by you.” 

From here, I began my journey of exploration through every Hobo Johnson song that had been released, which at that point consisted of his debut album and one single.

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Song: “Mover Awayer” – Person: Will Pierce

I met Pierce in fourth grade when my K-12 school had a student body the size of a large youth group. In high school, we shared a mutual love for our English teacher and fully embraced the roles of “the crappy Twitter poets.” (Every school has at least one).

Since Lopes’ music sounds like slam poetry with a beat, I introduced Pierce to it knowing that he would connect to it as I did. I was right.

For a few months we wrote poems, straining to achieve the same level of fluidity and insightfulness that Lopes seemed to create with ease. As enneagram fours with little more to do, relishing in the melancholy tracks became a regular after school activity for us. 

Though I certainly enjoyed the time I got to spend with someone I consider a brother, the dark themes behind the music Lopes wrote latched on to me. Whether I could relate to the topic or not, the attitude of disappointment in the life he was given seeped its way into my thoughts about my own. 

There were days that I would drive home from school in a blank stare listening to these songs I’d formed a relationship with. As dramatic as it sounds (and is), listening to his songs on rainy days excited me. Then I could fully embrace cinematic sadness. 

I can’t blame anyone for my pessimism throughout high school except myself. However, if I had understood the impact his music would have on me, I might have changed my queue sooner.

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Song: “I want a Dog” – Person: Zachary Bitterling 

“Sorry to bother you so late, and during spring break, but I just wanted to say thank you so much for showing me ‘I want a dog.’ I’d love to get your thoughts on its message if you ever find the time/want to.” 

In the words of my journalism professor, “That’s not your typical invite to Cobo.”

At this point, the emotional trap of Lopes’ music had loosened its grip on me. I recognized what it was able to do to my mood and thoughts and listened cautiously because of it. 

Still, “I Want a Dog” was and is one of my favorite Hobo Johnson songs, and the opportunity to have a conversation about it interested me. After proposing some slim time slots both of us had free from our list of responsibilities, we settled on dinner for Friday, April 9th. 

The meal went about how you might expect a Cobo meal to go if you have or do attend Union University; before even stepping foot into the dining hall, we already had a mutual friend tagging along. It didn’t take more than five minutes after that for another friend to join. There might have been one or two more people with us, but when I asked Zachary if he remembered how many people there were, he said, “I was definitely not thinking about them.” 

I don’t know if I have Frank Lopes to thank for my relationship with Zachary, but I do know that I have my relationship to thank for my reconciliation with Lopes’ music. 

I fully recognize that his music is important, bringing light to various experiences that are typically endured alone (i.e., family issues, depression, insecurities, etc). There’s something to be said for the person who starts the conversation, and I greatly respect Lopes for being that person.

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I’m not saying you shouldn’t go listen to Lopes’ music. Obviously, you can make your own decision about that. What I am saying is that you shouldn’t listen to him in the way that I did.

None of Lopes’ songs end with hope. In each one, he states his grievance about the world we live in, and just as you begin to agree with him, the music fades — leaving you with nothing to hold on to. Sometimes I would cry. Sometimes I would sit in silence. Never once did I know where to find my next step.

I embraced Lopes’ conclusion that “life is an abyss half-filled with sadness.” And I never really fought to prove him wrong.

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I became a follower of Christ when I was 7 years old. Since then, my hope has been in the fact that I share in Christ’s sufferings and my pain is not in vain. However, I always found it shockingly easy to forget that immovable truth while listening to Lopes’ inmost thoughts. 

I don’t engage with his music anymore. In fact, listening to it while writing this piece will be the first time I’ve played any of his songs since April 9th. If you choose to listen, however, allow me to give you the leg up I wish I had. 

Remember the truth of the Gospel. That Jesus came and died a sinner’s death so that we wouldn’t have to. Our pain is meant to strengthen us, and our suffering is temporary. Cling to that, and recognize hopelessness for what it is: hopeless.

I still admire Lopes for being able to write so accurately about certain issues that my generation and I face daily. However, his lack of a solution equates to popping a blister without tending to the wound; it’s just going to get infected again.