It’s been a long couple of years, and we’ve all changed a lot. In early 2020, I wrote a piece that carefully danced around the more problematic aspects of the “frat rap” genre, acknowledging both the genuine talent and unfortunate downsides to that musical aesthetic. I wanted readers to come away with an appreciation for music that makes you feel happy, have a good time, and remember what it was like to be in high school or college with your closest bros (something that’d become heartbreakingly necessary given that the piece came out in the first few days of March 2020 and we’d be unable to see many of these friends for a while). The thesis was: so what if the music was crass, funny, awkwardly-produced, or awkward to explain to other people – just let people have a good time and enjoy the beats. I made my argument through a ranking of the discography of Hoodie Allen, who I sought to paint as deserving of your time, energy, and attention from an artistic standpoint. 

Hoodie Allen’s real-life alter-ego Steven Markowitz is a University of Pennsylvania graduate and Google alumni who left that life behind to pursue his passion in pumping out some feel-good beats. He started to make waves when he appeared on Billboard’s Uncharted charts and peaked at #1 on the Billboard Rap charts via his album Happy Camper in 2016. I stand by what I said in my earlier piece – unlike many of his contemporaries, Hoodie tackled his fame and musical obscurity without taking himself too seriously, which complemented his other strengths: unique production quality, talented artistic partnerships, and a surprisingly acceptable voice for a white rapper. “Hoodie Allen may raise an eyebrow every time I ever say his name in a crowd amongst my friends, colleagues, and fellow bus passengers, but he is nonetheless a relatively harmless, fun, and exemplary frat rapper worthy of your attention,” is how I capped off my introduction of him to our readers.

Months later, Hoodie Allen found himself on the defensive after allegations of sexual misconduct against him and a band member began cropping up on Twitter, some of which were made by underage fans. Hoodie took to Twitter to talk about the accusations, fired the band member, and disappeared for a while. When asked for comment on his hiatus and the allegations, Hoodie’s publicity manager reiterated that the accused band member is no longer associated with Hoodie Allen and that the allegations hold no merit. Hoodie resurfaced earlier this year on Twitter, about two years after his retreat – ready to try again, with new music, a new style, and perhaps even a new attitude. Needless to say, it’s been a long couple of years for Hoodie Allen too, and that shows up in the release of his two new singles out so far this year, “Wouldn’t That Be Nice” and “Call Me Never.”

If you followed Hoodie’s discography up to his last major release in 2019, his new releases will both comfort and surprise you. They possess many of the anthemic qualities we’ve come to expect from his music but contain little of the rap, cheekiness, and light-heartedness that his staples of the 2010s carried. His May single, “Wouldn’t That Be Nice,” marketed itself as a departure from his work over the past decade. “Welcome to the era of Heartbreak Hoodie,” he tweeted with the release of that single – and early reviews noted the change of tone: an album that tells a story of a breakup and slides into punk-rock in lieu of rap. 

In the “Wouldn’t That Be Nice” music video, Hoodie has cast aside his usual bombast, eschewing bright lights, fun gimmicks, and a general atmosphere of cheer in favor of a darker tone. He appears sullen, beaten down, and depressed. Perhaps an apt aesthetic, given his last couple of years. In a particularly captivating scene, Hoodie – going through a breakup – is the odd-man-out at a table, privy to a scene he can’t stop thinking about (“Thanksgiving day, I’m so fucking embarrassed / That I didn’t know you were flying to LA to have dinner with his parents”). The bruised Hoodie is metaphorically swatted at like a fly by everyone else at the table, including the mom played by Silicon Valley’s Suzanne Cryer in a much more… well, emotive role; and the dad played by admitted The West Wing ruiner, Joshua Malina. It’s an emo and somewhat bitter performance from Hoodie, which sets the tone for where he looks to go this year as he releases the album he claims “saved my life.”

Asked about why he feels his forthcoming album “saved” him, Hoodie told us that “this is the first time I can remember that I really channeled an experience I was going through and processing directly into my music in the moment. Oftentimes we have the privilege to look back and then write about experiences but this album is a collection of songs I wrote amidst heartbreak and grief. Making these records filled the closure that I so desperately was seeking and in that turned something painful into something purposeful.”

Forget the summer anthems about parties, getting laid, and having fun that made Hoodie Allen a must listen on any drive with friends – in 2022, Hoodie Allen is serious.

On Hoodie’s second single this year, “Call Me Never”, he plays up the Blink-182 sound in what’s still very much a song about anguish and frustration and a relationship that had to end. He describes it as “all about being in that endless cycle of chasing someone who’s bad for you yet simultaneously trying to run away from those tendencies and move forward with your life… it is still ultimately about a weak moment that you can’t shake.” The music video exemplifies this feeling of being “stuck,” sticking Hoodie in a Russian Doll style time-loop where every day he wakes up in a hospital bed before running after a woman, failing to reach her after being hit or detained by the doctors, all before he wakes up again to use what he learned to dodge their blows the next go-round. Even after he’s mastered how to find her, she still doesn’t want to be with him.

While the punk guitar riffs and more uplifting pop sounds in “Call Me Never” make for a more sonically interesting (and 2000s throwback) song compared to “Wouldn’t That Be Nice,” Hoodie’s pop-punk renaissance does leave a bit to be desired in that it relies on understanding his story and his character. After 2020, many people are left wondering about both, and it’s not clear how much more Markowitz feels he needs to offer as he tries to pivot in this new direction. Does Hoodie Allen feel the need to genuinely change himself because of the last few years or is his sonic pivot an attempt at papering over what he’d rather forget and jumping on the rapper to pop-punk trend? But, asked whether the aforementioned allegations or hiatus directly played into Hoodie’s musical shift, his publicity manager told us they did not. It’s still plausible that whatever heartbreak he endured has made him more able to open up about what he feels he’s done right or wrong, more empathetic to the harsh realities of fame, and his change of tune both personally and musically would be an appropriate (and interesting) outlet for that reflection. 

We remain anxiously tuned after his hiatus for the release of more from him this year. Not just because there’s the potential for him to do something that is truly musically unique for the first time since his 2014 masterpiece People Keep Talking, but because it offers him an opportunity to answer these questions and grow.