Album Review: Royel Otis - 'Hickey'
Royel Otis return with Hickey, their third project in as many years, and perhaps their most emotionally charged yet. While recent singles like “Moody” and “Car” hinted at a familiar indie charm, the full album dives headfirst into darker waters; heartbreak, loss, and regret forming the core of its narrative. The Sydney duo wrap these themes in sunlit grooves and shimmering production, masking gut-wrenching songwriting beneath deceptively upbeat arrangements.
Opening track “I Hate This Tune” sets the tone. An anthemic build of drums and guitar, pairing somber storytelling with an emphatic, almost celebratory chorus that hides desperation in plain sight. “Moody” follows suit, Otis Pavlovic’s angst-ridden vocals carrying a folky undercurrent, while “Good Times” has a tropical bounce to it, underscoring memories that refuse to fade. The soft, string-laden “Torn Jeans” keeps the groove alive but adds a haunting undercurrent. A reluctance to let go, complete with howls that feel both cathartic and aching.
Midway, the emotional wrestling deepens. “Come On Home” has lyrics that flip from “it’s not over” to “it’s all over,” distilling the push-and-pull of post-breakup denial. “Who’s Your Boyfriend” cuts deep, its interrogative chorus dripping with insecurity. “Car” offers a more restrained indie moment, perhaps less memorable musically, but narratively vital in tracing the lingering ache of absence. Then comes “Shut Up,” one of the album’s standouts. Royel Maddell’s guitar work takes centre stage, his stripped-back delivery capturing grief in its purest, rawest & most understated form.
The album’s latter stretch alternates between buoyancy and bittersweetness. “Dancing With Myself” shimmers with high-pitched vocals and an almost weightless energy; a loneliness anthem dressed as a dance track. “Say Something,” easily one of their most infectious singles, nails the classic Royel Otis sound: an entrancing guitar and an ear-worm of a chorus. “She’s Got a Gun” veers into western-tinged territory, launching its hook with fireworks-like precision, while “More to Loose” swells into one last conflicted plea, torn between clinging to what was and coming to terms with this new, unfamiliar reality.
Closer “Jazz Burger” ties it all together with devastating grace. It’s a white-flag moment, a surrender to reality. It’s over, it’s not coming back. The lyric “when I’m gone, you’ll come running” feels plucked straight from a fading daydream, the candlelight of hope extinguishing into darkness. The ending is blunt but necessary; a truth that leaves you still, silent, and reflective.
Despite its heavy thematic core, Hickey is far from a joyless listen. Royel Otis’ genius lies in their ability to disguise heartbreak in danceable arrangements, to pair wistfulness with warmth. It’s the kind of record that might soundtrack a sunny drive, until you realise the lyrics have just undone you and now you find yourself crying in the lay-by of a motorway.
In just twelve months, the duo have delivered yet another outstanding body of work, one that captures the sting of love lost without sacrificing musical vibrancy. Hickey isn’t just an album about heartbreak. It’s about the strange, beautiful tension of feeling both broken and alive at the same time.
Words by Alex Peters
