Royel Otis’s new album ‘Hickey’ begs its audience to embrace their own arrested development, dig in their heels and rage against the overwhelming wave of adulthood which threatens to sweep us all away. With their classic wink-and-grin lyrics, reminiscing on a season of love and heartbreak, upbeat tunes and mournful lyrics set the scene of a final summer, a whirlwind of goodbyes and ‘’stay by my sides’’ in which we could stay forever trapped (or at least remember the taste of) for the 38 minutes of the short album.  

‘Hickey’ acts like a collection of photographs, the ones that hurt to look at; of blurry smiles and old friends, the memories which haunt you in the way only the good times can. However, as accusations and stories within the music industry come to light regarding the members’ past, it becomes uncomfortable to sift through the memories of youthful shenanigans alongside the two men who make up Royel Otis. Allegations have resurfaced regarding Royel (legal name Leroy Besington), who has been accused of having a relationship with a sixteen-year-old while teaching at Kings Cross Conservatorium. Therefore, while we can try to listen to the new album in isolation, enriched with ugly memories of youthful mistakes, it’s hard to ignore the growing discomfort that comes with examining the curated ‘’boyish’’ persona in which Leroy continues to distract from taking accountability for such allegations. How innocently can we consider youthful memories and mistakes through this lens?

Is the garage-boy-band pathos an organic reflection of Leroy and Otis, or are the uglier ideas of ‘Hickey’ more malicious when placed within a greater context? How does the album tread the line between Aussie ‘’boys-will-be-boys’’ culture and in accepting youth as a place to make mistakes?

The album's theme of growing up allows the audience to be enchanted, forced into a reminiscent stupor of bittersweet endings and endless possibilities. These are clear in the musings of ‘’All the places we went, I don’t want to forget’’ from I hate this tune, to the denial of ‘’it’s not over, not over’’ in Come on home, and the treasuring of the moment in Shut up’s ‘’Let us die young again’’ and ‘’live and die while we’re dreaming.’’ Royel Otis forces us to ask the question: What more is youth than a dream that we fear waking from? The band clings to the state of limbo between growing up and growing old; letting us immerse ourselves in the ugliness and beauty of not being fully formed, of making mistakes in love and friendship and of ‘’not wanting the good parts to end’’ 

I first saw Royel Otis at the Lansdowne in 2023, the lights so fluorescent that all my photos seemed in a haze, like I had simply dreamt I was there instead of physically standing on those hardwood floors that seemed to bend and bounce under the hypnotic surge of energy Royel and Otis enthralled over the small room. I saw them again at Liberty Hall, and then at Hordern Pavilion just a year later (their ticket prices had risen like petrol costs), the crowds growing around me, swaying to the pink-haired Royel and the rowdy boyishness of Otis: the twenty-something pied-piper, lured by their hit Like-A-Version cover of ‘Murder on the Dance Floor.’ The crowds were high-spirited and high-energy, cheering loudly and hollering with each new and older hit from their discography, songs ranging from nostalgic exploits of teenage-love to mouthy double-innuendos about orgies (Fried Rice) and self-pleasure (Adored). I stood awkwardly behind a woman I recognised as Otis’s glamorous health influencer mother as my friend loudly pointed out the lyrics ‘’Cam in the corner and tape on the way/ There's stuff in the water to keep us all awake.’’

Their new album ‘Hickey’ has hit the record store shelves with a mixed bag of reactions; a lyrical embodiment of the Peter Pan Syndrome familiar to anyone who has ever interacted with 20-something-year-old Australian boys. Caught in constant friction between a desire to stay forever locked in their Lost Boy cheekiness, saying what they want, doing whatever they wish, rejecting the expectations of adulthood. This is no moral criticism. Sometimes, a carefree attitude is exactly what we need to face a rapidly changing set of expectations and standards for successful adulthood. Could it possibly be wrong to want to live in that in-between for a bit longer? 

Unfortunately, there are darker connotations that seem to emerge when we consider the thirty-year-old man with concerning allegations singing about the crudity and messiness of youthful relationships. When reflecting on the themes of this album, one has to ask oneself the extent to which we can remain trapped in a school-boy stasis, and ask whether Australian men can continue to be allowed to get away with escaping accountability and responsibility by wrapping themselves in the incredibly familiar persona of the ‘’cheeky Aussie lad’’. 

Anyone who has kept up with the online reaction will have noticed that the first single from the album Moody, has faced backlash for seemingly misogynistic lyrics. In an Australian context, one of extremely concerning rates of young male misogynists and gendered violence, where we have seen a 28% increase in the number of women killed by their partners in Australia, and the Prime Minister has declared a ‘national crisis’ of violence against women, it isn’t unfathomable to see why people have been angered by the chorus:

“Last time, she said she would kill me. My girl's a bitch when she's moody”

Beyond their distinctive sonic energy, Royal Otis is well known for a tendency towards an unfiltered exploration of the crevices and most raw aspects of youth and infatuation, so why the outrage at these crude lyrics? The general reaction and outcry seem to reflect the conundrum of artists who have been exposed to stardom faster than their mouths can catch up with. 

The band’s reaction hasn’t exactly been a miracle of public relations - at best, throwing out a (paraphrased) ‘’sorry if this offended you’’ and at the worst, brushing off the criticism with a claim that the song has been their highest performing release. 

Misogyny in the rock and alternative music sphere isn’t unprecedented either, but the audience reaction brings into question the new parameters that have been drawn up for young artists. Aussie boys aren’t exactly known for their tact, so are our expectations unrealistic, or have these new artists been exposed to more eyes than they’re used to performing for? When tongue-in-cheek and unfiltered emotion form the bedrock of your sound, navigating new expectations and understanding a broader audience can be challenging. In a world where any of your favourite local bands can be thrust into the spotlight with the right viral hit, the spotlight is seeming more and more like an operating light in which to perform a public autopsy of all potential moral failure and weaknesses. It’s a classic oxymoron: the bigger you get, the more popular you get; the more you seem to anger and incite criticism. The more you try to appeal to everyone, the more you’re going to fade into obscurity. 

I would argue that the song Moody fits perfectly within the greater theme of the album. In a way, the stubbornness to diverge from their original, unpolished vibes could be considered a relief and may also indicate that they refuse to be swept away by age and the growing demands of their audience. They remain forever those garage-band boys who had somehow managed to bottle up the feeling of being 19 in that hazy pub, heartsick and excited for the life about to come at you, completely unaware of how their own lives were about to turn upside down. This is why, even as Moody (or she’s got a gun to an extent) may have its valid criticisms, it’s wrong to disregard the ugliness of youthful love and rampant emotion, of forgetting the bad things we said to those we love, or the love we lost in searching for ourselves. However, when considering the greater context of Leroy’s allegations within the music industry, the album becomes a manifestation of the growing problem of misogyny and abuse committed by adult Australian men who refuse to grow up and accept accountability. 

So, in the most complicated way, if you’re looking to bask in the half-formed grotesqueness of a youthful summer, Royal Otis has served up 40 minutes of dreamy-pop rock to reminisce and regret, and embrace that Australian Peter Pan Syndrome. For better or for worse. 

Ruby Harris is a final-year PR and English student with a passion for Aussie music and art.