Royal Headache Was One of the Great Punk Rock Bands of the 2010s
On June 1st Royal Headache officially called it quits with a simple Facebook post: “2008-2017.” The four-piece from Sydney, Australia put out their second album in 2015, toured the world, played a final show at LA’s FYF Fest in 2017, and just like that they were done.
I write about this now, four months after the announcement, because I firmly believe Royal Headache will go down as one of the greatest punk bands of the last 20 years. The band, comprised of Tim “Shogun” Wall, Lawrence “Law” Hall, Chris “Shortty” Shortt, and Joe Sukit, made triumphant, often times blisteringly joyful rock that was not aggressive or harsh enough to be considered straightforward punk, but too raucous and wild to be lumped into the broad “indie” or “garage rock" categories. They also had killer nicknames.
Their knack for catchy melodies and urgent guitar riffs comes through right out the gate on “Never Again,” the first track off their 2011 self-titled debut. What’s most impressive about this album though, is the relative range they display. “Girls” is a sub two-minute mosh-friendly burst of opposite sex-aimed angst. Shogun’s soulful pining on “Honey Joy” quickly gives way to Law’s ripping guitars and the song becomes a full-on pub rocker. The preceding track, “Wilson Street,” a surf rock-y instrumental, serves as a bit of a decompressor following nine fuzzy spurts of energy. Every song is under 3 minutes in length, which naturally invited some Guided By Voices comparisons when it came out—but this is no lo-fi scattershot record. While some are a bit skuzzy and others are surprisingly polished, each of Royal Headache’s songs feel like a complete work, unlike some of Bob Pollard’s more haphazard mini-experiments. And like a good sitcom episode (the whole album is 26 minutes long), it leaves you satisfied but wanting a bit more.
They certainly delivered the “more” fans were hoping for with 2015’s High—a damn near perfect rock album that saw the band expanding their sound, if only slightly, and evoking punk forebears Buzzcocks and The Replacements. Once again, Shogun’s vocal prowess is on full display here—wailing through tunes like the heart-on-sleeve, keyboard-accompanied “Wouldn’t You Know” and the Neil Diamond-referencing, anthemic rocker “Carolina”—a strong contender for their best song.
The music speaks for itself, and as I’ve already alluded, will likely reach a larger audience as the band’s critical stature steadily rises. But for fans of Royal Headache, the question remains—after two very solid, well received albums, a cult-like fan base in Australia, and strong following stateside—what happened? They were apparently at work on a new record and were playing new, markedly poppier songs live, but then out of nowhere comes this terse announcement on social media, that rather confusingly places the band’s end point in 2017. Why are we just finding out now?
I saw the band play the Empty Bottle in July 2017, a few short weeks before what would end up being their final show, and the dysfunction sometimes discussed in interviews was fairly apparent in a live setting. Shogun, the lanky spark plug of a lead singer, seemed low-key disgruntled throughout. This lent well to his riled up, at times manic performance, but it also came through in his mumbled between-song banter. He complained numerous times about playing songs that were “a hundred years old,” a gripe he’d expressed in interviews too.
It seems like Royal Headache’s volatility stemmed largely from Shogun—the frenetic core of the band. Billboard’s Jem Aswad described him as, “awkward but intelligent, oddly charismatic and very well spoken and so much a relic of an earlier era that he doesn't even carry a phone.” He briefly left the band in 2014, later telling Billboard, “I can't fully remember why I left, but there was a lot of shit raining from the sky and I just felt like I wanted to get out.”
We may not know the full story for a long time, or possibly ever. But Royal Headache’s legacy—their rousing and immediate music—will live on and, I predict, turn them into something resembling the mythic, enigmatic cult figures of indie rock that split too soon with their best work likely ahead of them. Of course, it’s also entirely possible that I’m projecting my fandom here. Perhaps they’ll simply be remembered as a decent rock band that had two solid records in ten years and then called it quits. That’d be fine too—Royal Headache’s tunes blaring out of some shitty speakers whenever the mood strikes will undoubtedly be enough to, in the words of Shogun, “come get me high.”