A defiant anthem of dignity and survival, “The Joke” stands as a reminder that ridicule fades, but truth endures.
When Brandi Carlile released “The Joke” in early 2018, it did not arrive with the noise of a conventional hit single. Instead, it moved quietly, deliberately, like a conversation meant for those who had lived long enough to understand the cost of being laughed at—and the strength required to keep going anyway. The song is the emotional centerpiece of her sixth studio album, By the Way, I Forgive You, and from the moment it appeared, it was clear that Carlile was no longer simply writing songs. She was offering testimony.
Upon its release, “The Joke” climbed steadily rather than explosively. It reached No. 1 on Billboard’s Adult Alternative Songs chart, a significant achievement that reflected deep listener connection rather than fleeting popularity. On broader charts, it made a modest appearance on the Billboard Hot 100, but its real impact was cultural and emotional, not numerical. The industry later confirmed what listeners already knew: at the 2019 Grammy Awards, the song won Best Rock Song and Best Rock Performance, cementing its place as one of the most important American songs of its decade.
The story behind “The Joke” is inseparable from Brandi Carlile’s own life and from the lives she has witnessed closely. Written with longtime collaborators and bandmates Tim and Phil Hanseroth, the song was inspired by people who live on society’s margins—those mocked for their identity, their voice, their difference. Carlile has spoken about thinking of young people, outsiders, and anyone who has been told, implicitly or explicitly, that they do not belong. Yet the song never names a specific group. Its power lies in its universality. Almost everyone, at some point, has been made to feel small.
Musically, “The Joke” is built with patience and restraint. It begins in near-whisper, carried by a gentle piano and Carlile’s intimate vocal, which sounds less like a performance and more like a confession shared across a kitchen table late at night. As the song unfolds, it grows—not abruptly, but inevitably. By the final chorus, Carlile’s voice rises into a near-shout, raw and unguarded, echoing the tradition of great American singers who understood that sometimes the truth must be sung loudly to be heard at all.
Lyrically, the song walks a careful line between sorrow and defiance. The central idea is devastatingly simple: those who laugh now may not be laughing forever. “They can kick dirt in your face,” Carlile sings, but history has a way of turning the joke back on the mocker. This is not revenge in the traditional sense; it is endurance. The song argues, quietly but firmly, that survival itself is a form of victory.
For listeners shaped by earlier eras of songwriting—those who remember when lyrics mattered as much as melodies—“The Joke” feels like a return to something essential. There are echoes of classic protest songs, of folk and rock traditions where music served as moral witness. Yet Carlile never sounds nostalgic for its own sake. She bridges generations, reminding us that the struggles once sung about in the 1960s and 1970s did not vanish; they simply changed names and faces.
Within the album By the Way, I Forgive You, “The Joke” functions as a moral anchor. While other songs explore regret, reconciliation, and personal history, this track looks outward, offering solidarity. It is perhaps no accident that it became the song most closely associated with Carlile’s public identity. In live performances, it often feels less like entertainment and more like a communal moment—an unspoken agreement between singer and listener.
In the end, “The Joke” is not about bitterness. It is about dignity. It speaks to anyone who has carried wounds quietly and kept moving forward anyway. Long after chart positions fade and award ceremonies are forgotten, this song remains—steady, honest, and unafraid to say what so many have felt but never quite managed to put into words.