Royel Otis Plays Tug Of War With Heartache In ‘hickey’
Photo via Royel Otis.
“You know I hate this tune 'cause I think of you / For the love of this place, I could never replace,” Otis Pavlovic croons in the corner at a party on the opening track “i hate this tune.” Or from the back of a diner in a booth made for two. Or in his car down the highway at dusk. Wherever it may be, it’s a song that incessantly strikes blows through the speakers because of the person it’s tied to. Despite the sharp feelings that arise, he just can’t turn it off. That’s how the rest of Royel Otis’ sophomore album hickey feels—like a tattoo kiss that lingers long after.
Pavlovic and his bandmate, Royel Maddell, form Royel Otis, an Australian indie duo that has left an influential imprint on the alternative indie scene since their start in 2019. In 2024, their addictive cover of Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s “Murder On The Dance Floor” took over the internet and garnered over 23 million views, later followed by another viral cover of “Linger” by The Cranberries. Where their debut album PRATTS & PAIN served as an introduction to the pair’s skillful fusion of yacht rock and indie-pop, their sophomore album solidifies their 70s and 80s-inspired garage groove a step further, yet with more precision and palpability. Touring takes a toll, and hitting stages like Glastonbury and Lollapalooza on top of a headline tour is no joke. With minds heavy-laden with the aftermath of being in love and saying goodbye, Pavlovic and Maddell found slivers of downtime in between shows to conjure up a 13-track project about the somber silhouettes left by heartache.
Climbing up to #1 on the Billboard charts, their single “moody” is introduced as “a song about a girl.” It’s packed with the tension of a rocky relationship that’s fixated on heightened emotions and miscommunication. “Last time she said she would kill me,” Pavlovic sings without flinching, as if this behavior is a regular occurrence. The acoustic rumblings by Maddell feel like secondary vocals alongside Pavlovic’s, giving the track a grungy, live performance feel.
A break from their signature, electric-driven structure is found early on in “torn jeans” and “come on home,” the two tracks painted by a dreamlike bounce in their guitar riffs reminiscent of No Vacation or Kate Bollinger. In “torn jeans,” he allows himself to drown in the “blue moon” pool of desire, which he admits in his lines, “All night I wait on you / Can't find a remedy to get by.” No matter how hard he resists, the outlines of his past relationship, down to the details of her “torn jeans,” pull him into the temptation of longing for familiarity.
“Come on home” expresses a similar sense of yearning, a kind that waits by the windowsill. Yet this time, it’s a full-fledged denial of an ending found in the refrain, “It’s not over, not over” throughout the song. The warm, hazy melody feels like an outstretched hand, begging the other person to walk back through the door, where light leaks into the kitchen at the perfect angle and the crux of their relationship never happens.
On the flip side, “who’s your boyfriend” toys with a potential love triangle, where blurry lines and unspoken confessions take the wheel. The first verse, “I could break him / Well, probably not / But he bailed on your birthday / And you're callin' me up a lot,” feels like reading text messages you aren’t supposed to see, and we’re given a glimpse into the circular confrontations running rampant in his mind. The messy relationship is masked behind shiny instrumentals that gleam with upbeat nostalgia, which you can’t help but nod along to. The track is paired with a music video starring Lola Tung from Amazon Prime’s hit series The Summer I Turned Pretty, which features a similar relationship dynamic that could easily slip into the show’s soundtrack.
Melting with tints of gold and auburn reverb, the sun-kissed single “car” encapsulates a soundtrack for late summer night drives down the 405. Coated with the sweet and sour limbo nature of goodbyes, he attaches the complicated feelings of letting go to an actual location—a car that pleads for its passengers to slam its doors. While he agrees to one last moment together, in this track, it’s with the intent of full-on closure. “I’ll meet you in the car on the corner / But you’re never gonna change my mind,” he sings with finality.
We’re back on the defense in “say something” where a dead end seems to be the common theme. “Said you wanna be alone / Overthinking everything / Silence always stressed me out,” he analyzes the situation, only to come to no resolution. “So what do you want from me? / What do you need?” he implores profusely over relentless kick drums, but is ultimately met with no response. The lights keep shutting off before he’s brought any sense of clarity, and now he’s left entirely in the dark.
It’s no surprise we’re left with an open-ended declaration in “jazz burger,” a three-minute blast to the past with the duo’s signature indie-fuzz we know and love. It’s a laidback letter of invitation, a door left ajar. Did either party ever want to really leave? We’re only given one side of the narrative, but is it reliable? All we know is that his initial claim, “Maybe it’s time that I leave,” turns into the closing lines, “When I see you sometimes / I wanna hang out.”
Goodbyes are the hardest, and Royel Otis punctures hearts with a multitude of them throughout the album. Their sophomore album steers clear of any reservations that the duo could deliver a project as good as the first. With irreplaceable chemistry, a fearless approach to the highs and lows of love, and the ability to transform a simple moment into a profound memory through their sonic arrangements, hickey forces its listeners to experience love’s cutting edge.
