Benson Boone is the kind of pop star who can divide the internet with a single flip. To some, he’s a charismatic showman with a knack for catchy hooks, wild energy, and a flair for the theatrical, whether that means donning sparkly jumpsuits or slipping whimsical lines like “Moonbeam Ice Cream” into his songs. To others, he’s an artist who leans too hard on style over substance, using elaborate gimmicks to distract from lyrics that critics say don’t always land. Either way, the 23-year-old from Monroe, Washington, has managed to keep himself at the center of attention, riding the waves of both praise and ridicule into sold-out tours, viral TikToks, and collaborations that have taken on a life of their own.
His path to fame is firmly rooted in the digital age. Boone’s journey began in earnest with TikTok, where his videos—equal parts music and personality—quickly caught fire. The 2024 release of “Beautiful Things” cemented him as a mainstream pop contender, topping charts and soundtracking countless user-generated clips. But his career isn’t just built on hit singles; it’s also fueled by his ability to lean into the conversation swirling around him, whether that conversation is glowing or scathing. And lately, there’s been plenty of the latter.
Boone is well aware of his critics, and rather than retreat, he’s found ways to answer them in the most Benson Boone way possible: with humor, sarcasm, and more than a little self-awareness. Nowhere is this clearer than in his music video for “Mr Electric Blue,” which opens with a meta scene of Boone sitting across from his fictional “manager.” The manager is looking for a new gimmick, and suggests songwriting as an option. Boone’s mock-sheepish reply—“You know I can’t do that”—is a tongue-in-cheek jab at one of the most common complaints lobbed his way. It’s the kind of playful self-deprecation that lets him acknowledge the jokes without letting them define him.
That ability to wink at the audience is part of what makes him so polarizing. On June 25, his birthday, Boone took to TikTok to post a video that perfectly captured his approach to online negativity. “It’s my birthday. Stop the hate for a day and let me relax. We can continue tomorrow,” he said with an amused grin. The clip struck a chord, amassing over seven million views by early August. It was the kind of interaction that showed both his awareness of the noise around him and his refusal to take it too seriously.
Long before Boone became a lightning rod for debates about authenticity, he was just another young musician trying to find his footing. After a brief stint at Brigham Young University–Idaho, he dropped out to pursue music full-time. In 2021, he auditioned for “American Idol” and quickly impressed judges Katy Perry, Lionel Richie, and Luke Bryan with his soulful take on Aidan Martin’s “Punchline.” But in a move that puzzled fans at the time, Boone voluntarily withdrew from the competition after making it into the Top 24. That decision, like much of what he’s done since, seemed to come from an instinct to control his own narrative rather than let the industry dictate it.
His latest project, the album “American Heart,” has only intensified the conversation around him. The record debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard 200, an achievement that speaks to his commercial pull. But while his fans embraced the music, critics were less charitable. TikTok commentator JLC compared Boone’s aesthetic—specifically his love for glittery, one-piece jumpsuits—to icons like Harry Styles, Freddie Mercury, and David Bowie. The difference, JLC argued, is that while those artists exude effortless authenticity, Boone sometimes looks like he’s wearing a costume. The critique went viral, with side-by-side photos suggesting Boone’s outfits read more “Halloween” than high fashion.
Podcaster Sam Murphy took a broader swipe at Boone’s artistic choices, focusing on the “American Heart” album cover, which features the singer shirtless and draped in an American flag. Murphy drew a contrast with Bruce Springsteen’s iconic “Born in the U.S.A.” cover, which also incorporated the flag but carried a pointed critique of American society, especially in its treatment of working-class people and Vietnam veterans. In Murphy’s view, Boone’s use of the flag lacked such depth, coming off more like empty symbolism than a statement. He likened it to a white Australian wearing a “Straight Out of Compton” T-shirt—using cultural or national imagery without engaging with its deeper meaning.
The criticism extended beyond visuals into Boone’s songwriting. Pitchfork’s Jeremy Larson gave “American Heart” a lukewarm 3.7 out of 5, while Anthony Fantano of The Needle Drop labeled it a “light 3.” Fantano zeroed in on the song “Mystical Magical,” raising eyebrows over its narrative. In his view, the lyrics amounted to pestering a woman who repeatedly rejects the narrator until she seemingly gives in—an arc Fantano dismissed with an emphatic “Ew.” He also questioned the much-discussed phrase “Moonbeam Ice Cream,” which had baffled fans and critics alike.
Boone has explained the lyric’s origins with a story that seems to encapsulate his creative style: a mix of spontaneity, humor, and a willingness to embrace the absurd. As he told Jimmy Fallon during an appearance on “The Tonight Show,” the line was born out of writer’s block during a studio session with his songwriting partner Jack LaFrantz. After an hour of spinning their wheels, LaFrantz jokingly blurted out, “Moonbeam Ice Cream, taking off your blue jeans.” It was meant as a placeholder, but when they listened back later, Boone decided it was perfect in its own oddball way. “Hell yeah,” he recalled thinking. It’s hard to imagine Freddie Mercury ever crooning about ice cream in quite this fashion, but for Boone, it’s part of the charm.
That same offbeat energy has made “Moonbeam Ice Cream” more than just a lyric—it’s become a brand. In June, Boone teamed up with Crumbl Cookie to create the “Moonbeam Ice Cream Cookie,” a decadent concoction featuring chocolate cookie dough, cookies-and-cream pieces, lemon, berry, and marshmallow toppings, and a white drizzle. The collaboration might have seemed like a gimmick to some, but it undeniably worked as a marketing hook. Social media lit up with videos of fans trying the cookie, often incorporating backflips or jeans-dropping antics inspired by the “Mystical Magical” chorus. The memes wrote themselves, and Boone leaned into it, posting his own clip of taking a single bite before pulling off a backflip.
For Boone, this willingness to embrace the ridiculous is more than just a marketing strategy—it’s a form of self-defense. By making himself the punchline before anyone else can, he flips criticism into content, robbing it of its sting. When fans began unexpectedly flooding him with positive comments, he responded with mock confusion in a TikTok captioned, “I’m not used to Moonbeam positivity.” The joke landed precisely because it acknowledged that much of his public persona thrives on this dance between adoration and derision.
The cycle seems to work in his favor. Every time someone calls him gimmicky, he finds a way to amplify the gimmick until it becomes part of the show. Every critique of his lyrics or image becomes fodder for a video, a costume choice, or a stage bit. In the fragmented attention economy of 2025, where musicians compete not just for ears but for eyes and clicks, Boone has found a way to be endlessly watchable—even for people who claim not to like him.
That doesn’t mean he’s immune to legitimate criticism, and it’s possible that at some point he’ll have to grapple more directly with questions of artistic depth. But right now, Boone seems content to operate in the space where sincerity and satire blur. His performances are big, his fashion choices are louder still, and his songs often carry the kind of instantly recognizable hooks that make them catnip for TikTok creators. Whether that formula can sustain him long-term remains to be seen, but it’s undeniably working in the short term.
What makes Boone’s case particularly interesting is how much of his career has unfolded in public, in real time. He didn’t build mystique before stepping into the spotlight; instead, he invited the audience into his rise from the moment he started posting music online. That openness means that every misstep, every questionable lyric, every polarizing outfit becomes part of the ongoing story. It also means that fans feel a certain intimacy with him—they’ve seen not just the polished album covers but the messy creative process, the scrapped ideas, the jokes that turned into full-blown brand tie-ins.
Boone’s American Heart Tour, set to kick off on August 22, will be a test of just how far this balancing act can go. On stage, he’ll have to deliver performances that satisfy both his diehard supporters and the casual spectators who might be showing up out of curiosity—or skepticism. If history is any indication, he won’t shy away from leaning into the spectacle. Backflips are almost certainly on the menu, and if a Moonbeam Ice Cream-themed stage prop doesn’t make an appearance, it would be a surprise. The shows will likely be an extension of the persona he’s cultivated online: part pop concert, part internet meme come to life.
In the end, Benson Boone is a reminder that in today’s pop landscape, the line between artistry and performance art is thin. He’s as much a character as he is a musician, and he seems to understand that better than most. For some, that makes him a frustrating figure—an artist who could, in their eyes, focus more on substance than spectacle. For others, it makes him irresistible, a performer who understands that music in 2025 is as much about the story around the songs as it is about the songs themselves.
Boone isn’t trying to be Harry Styles or Bruce Springsteen or Freddie Mercury. He’s trying to be Benson Boone—a version of himself that’s big enough, strange enough, and self-aware enough to keep people watching. And if that means some will roll their eyes while others buy tickets and cookies, so be it. He’s not asking everyone to get it; he’s just making sure they can’t look away.
