The unshakeable core of Hohnen Ford

The 27-year-old North London-born songwriter describes her committed outlook as a “family thing”, which has inevitably contributed to why her music transforms devastating subjects such as grief, mortality, and heartbreak, into something veering on hope. It’s the golden wire that illuminates her latest EP, Incurable Optimist. This follows her 2023 debut Infinity, and I Wish I Had A God released last year, her newest work being a short collection which captures flickers of light between the heavier experiences endured throughout adulthood.

“I think I’m definitely a glass half full person. That’s sometimes great, and sometimes to my detriment,” she admits with characteristic self-awareness. “In a practical sense, I’m late to everything because I see the most optimistic version of the journey. I’ve been an adult for a little while now, and that still hasn’t changed. But I walk through life with that at the centre, and it feels unwavering, irrespective of the situation.”

Ford makes a point to emphasise this view on “Tomorrow’s Tomorrow”, a sparkling standout that closes out the EP for its chiming, upbeat tone. She sings, “I was born with a strong fist / You’re a realist / I’m an incurable optimist”, framing the essence of the work within a statement of acceptance for things as they come, and a forward-looking stance towards better days.

Get the Best Fit take on the week in music direct to your inbox every Friday

Ford’s “strong fist” and undeniable penchant for positivity began forming in a London household where music served as a refuge. She tells me that mother plays classical piano beautifully, while her father maintains a deep love for music rooted in Motown, Bay Area funk, and an impressive record collection that informed her developing sonic palette. She was also learning tap, which pointed her in the direction of jazz arrangements.

But it was a move to San Francisco when Ford was only ten years old that proved pivotal to the direction of her musicianship, introducing her to a distinctly American musical sensibility that would come to define her approach to songwriting. “I definitely feel like the American school influences me more. Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, James Taylor, The Beach Boys. Maybe it was a subconscious thing. Being at that age and in the CD era, there were artists like Elliot Smith and Fiona Apple playing on the radio, crossover jazz artists like Norah Jones. They were infiltrating my brain.”

This inspiration shines through the crystal-clear quality of Ford’s soprano vocal quality, reminiscent of Mitchell’s early work — especially when accompanied by piano compositions and further minimal instrumentation. This is especially the case for the slow, rich balladry of “Ordinary”, which takes a page from American singer-songwriters by placing Ford’s voice at the forefront with a simplistic piano arrangement as the stabilising backbone.

While living in San Francisco, Ford also encountered a music teacher with an unusual setup that contributed to her expanding her instrumental repertoire. “I met her to play the piano, but she also taught flute. And if you played the flute, you could go into her room of parakeets,” Ford recalls. “She had this basement full of parakeets. I just remember thinking that it’s way more fun if you get to hang out with the parakeets.” That tradeoff was worthwhile, laying significant groundwork for Ford. “That was my first time really learning how to practice.”

When she returned to England, Ford continued playing flute with the support of a new teacher, who she credits for teaching her the discipline that would undergird everything that followed; her discovery of jazz at thirteen and ignited passion for the genre, leading her to eventually study at the Royal Academy of Music as a jazz vocalist. However, as the only singer and only woman on her course, she felt pressure to conform to the scene’s virtuosic ideals. “It felt very uncool to be into songs and songwriting,” she admits. “I really wanted to be accepted.”

This created an artistic double life for Ford. While pursuing her jazz studies, she was secretly writing what she called “little ditties” as a teenager — intimate, emotional songs that felt like diary entries. It was a personal practice that gave Ford space for emotional solace and musical exploration alike. “I had a little guitar and I’d write these like one or two minute songs that would be just for myself. I didn’t really think about it as songwriting. It was like my dirty little secret.”

Speaking about the pressure of how her peers would perceive her, Ford explains: “I was worried about what they would think of it, and whether my writing was pushing boundaries.There can be this slight sense of shame in some jazz communities where it’s like, if you have any success, even if you didn’t look for it, you’re a sellout,” Ford reflects. “And I was always kind of self-conscious that if people like my music, then I must be selling out.”

It wasn’t until the external shock of Covid that Ford began to break free from these constraints. Graduating in 2020 into a world suddenly stripped of institutional frameworks, she found herself asking fundamental questions: “What do I want to do, and what do I want to say?” The answer led her back to her collection of secret songs. “I kept myself busy enough, up until that point, to not have to think about what I really wanted to do. That’s when I really got into writing and kind of plucked up the courage to start sharing those songs.”

Her creative process reflects someone who’s learned to trust both spontaneity and preparation. She tells me that the notes on her phone contains loads of her ideas —melodic snippets, lyrical fragments, emotional kernels waiting for the right moment to bloom — sometimes with the help of literary inspiration.

“Whenever I finish a book, I’ll go back and write out all of the stuff I underlined. They’re kind of cheat sheets for when I get stuck,” she explains. Recent influences include Anne Michaels’ Fugitive Pieces and James Baldwin’s If Beale Street Could Talk, with their language seeping into her songwriting in unexpected ways. Opener “Burn My Return Ticket (The Rat Song)”, for example, traces back to Hanif Kureishi’s Buddha of Suburbia. Ford was so deeply inspired by a single line about the novel’s main character burning their travel ticket home, that it ultimately resonated with her own experience and became the foundation of the song. “Sometimes it’s really mundane, like, it’ll just be something that says ‘grey eyes’. And I’ll be like, why did I underline this?” Ford laughs. “But a whole world opens up from that.”

The real magic happens when all of the elements come together naturally. “The stuff that I’m most proud of — or like the songs that I feel most excited about — will often have the lyrics, melody, and harmony all come at once,” Ford explains. When the stars don’t necessarily align, the craft becomes more challenging. “I find that the hard part is when you have a melody or a lyric that you’re really attached to, and you really have a vision for it. Finding its missing part can be really frustrating.”

Sometimes, finding the missing piece just requires showing up. Ford draws a compelling parallel between songwriting work and research, referencing a friend’s PhD process. “He’d say, ‘I’m going to go into the lab and I’ll be there Monday to Friday’. I’m like, ‘what are you doing?’ And he just said, ‘I don’t know. I just want to try and discover something.” This resonates deeply with her approach to songwriting: “When you’re writing a record or writing songs, or finding out what you want to say, it’s essentially that process. You just have to show up, and that is half the work. When you’re trying to say something unique and true, you’re discovering something. Which I think a record should do. And you should invest that kind of time in it.” Although the hard work isn’t always visible or immediately productive in the way an empirical project is, it’s essential.

Ford’s approach — something both measured and organic — extends to her philosophy about complexity in music. Drawing from her jazz background, she incorporates some technical elements in the music, but you wouldn’t know they were there unless you looked — rather than wearing complexity on the surface. It’s a mature approach that honours both her training and commitment to prioritising emotional directness. “I would much rather there be an immediate connection and understanding. And then, if you care, you can dig away at that and find something clever. The little moments in the music that create the emotions.”

Leading with honest connection has been central to Ford’s evolution as an artist. The journey from those early “dirty little secret” songs to her current work involved not just overcoming external pressures, but confronting internal ones as well. “I definitely have some peace and acceptance with things out of my control,” she reflects. “That’s changed a lot.” The shift has been particularly pronounced in her ability to collaborate and receive feedback, opening her up to being able to create in more supportive ways. “Over the years, I’m becoming more secure. That’s allowed me to be challenged by people musically and creatively without crying and feeling like I’m being criticised because someone doesn’t like an idea. Insecurity is out!”

Ford’s newfound security feels directly intertwined with her strong relationship with community. Before releasing music herself, she was part of a songwriting circle, which inevitably offered important connection among creatives while also nurturing her confidence as an artist. “It was incredibly scary at the beginning, but cool,” she notes. Now, she hosts free, invite-only events for friends and artists. It’s designed as a safe, supportive space for artists to share new work. “Everything is expensive and far away, and everyone’s tired,” she acknowledges, “But I just want to do my bit when I can to have events which don’t cost anything, which help you meet people.”

This community involvement also extends beyond music. Ford also hosts an ultimate frisbee team that she describes as her “pride and joy” — a coed, non-contact sport that attracts musicians specifically because it’s safer than other contact sports. “A lot of musicians come now because of that,” she notes. The team has become self-sustaining, continuing even when she’s away touring. “I love that sort of brotherhood that comes with team sports. For a couple of hours a week, those people are my best friends. I might not see them for the rest of the week, or maybe you won’t see them for months. But that’s fine. I just see them on the pitch, and it’s great.”

The frisbee team also connects to something deeper and more personal. Ford dedicates much of her work to Imogen, a close friend who passed away two years ago — someone who embodied the spirit of bringing people together. On the day Imogen died, Ford still attended the frisbee match. “Everyone showed up and knew what happened, but there was just such an unspoken kindness,” she remembers. “I made a commitment to myself on that day to keep it going. It‘s just a bit of her. You can have a bad day, but it means so much to your people, and your community, to just be there.”

Her relationship with grief and memory crystallises beautifully on “Skylight”, featuring folk-pop group Tiny Habits. Written the same day as the release of her earlier song “I Wish I Had a God” — which dealt more directly with the raw immediacy of loss — “Skylight” represents an evolution in her understanding of grief. “‘I Wish I Had a God’ came out, and I was getting a lot of messages from mutual friends and Imogen’s family,” Ford explains. “I was just thinking about ways in which I felt the same, and in what ways I felt different. How grief changes, but it doesn’t leave — it doesn’t feel like it’s gotten any smaller. But I can play ‘I Wish I Had a God’ at shows now without crying.”

“Skylight” emerged during a session with producer Leroy Clampitt, who aided the song’s development. “Something that I love about Leroy is that he leaves a lot of space. He’s got very calm energy. I just felt he really allowed that song to exist.” The song was also marked by synchronicity. While Ford was in a taxi heading to the the session, Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Everywhere’ played on the radio. Ford reveals to me that this was Imogen’s first dance song and one she’d loved deeply.

“I just thought that was like her kind of being with us for a minute,” she recalls. “What I always say when I talk about ‘Skylight’, is that grief of is persevering. I still think about her just as much. I feel like she’s with me, I talk to her sometimes. That side of grief I’m able to see more than I could the year before.” It’s an expression of true, authentic feeling, and throughout our conversation Ford returns to questions of truth and authenticity with genuine curiosity about what makes something real or meaningful. “I have a bit of an obsession with truth. What makes something true?” she muses. “Why do we, as humans, like, get upset about lies?”

With that, Ford endeavours to produce a raw, unfiltered experience through her work. The pursuit of truth extends to her definition of success, which she frames in terms of genuine connection rather than metrics. “I’ve always just wanted my songs to reach the people that would want to hear them, would benefit from them, and feel something from them.” Her ultimate goal is creating music that makes listeners think not about the artist, but about themselves and their own experiences. “The pinnacle of great art is for people to be like, ‘How did you read my diary? How did you get in my head?’” she says, referencing a story about a Beatles fan who was convinced every song was written about his life. “For someone to ask, ‘How do you manage to write my complete human experience, even though you’ve never had it?’ That’s the goal.”

As the conversation draws to a close, Ford shares a story that she was recently told about her nan’s school reunion, in which an old acquaintance named simply finished his pint, put his head down, and died peacefully at the table. Her nan’s reaction to telling the story — bursting into laughter at what could very well be a perfect way to go — captures something essential about Ford’s perspective. There’s a profound acceptance of life’s fragility coupled with an insistence on finding beauty even in endings — the perfect encapsulation of what it means to be an incurable optimist. “I want to get off stage when I’m ninety or whatever, and it’d be the best show I’ve ever done, and to die,” Ford says with a grin. “Success for me is making shit until I die, and for it to just get better and better.”