The Single Life: Panic! At The Disco, Miley Cyrus & More

Look, could someone just come up with some sort of standard measure for what constitutes a band ‘breaking up’, ‘going on hiatus’, ‘retiring’, ‘reforming’ and/or ‘making a comeback’? Thanks in advance. 

In their slightly obsessive-compulsive way, Philadelphia Grand Jury had it down as ‘three years, nine months, and some days’ since they stopped being. But, even with Berkfinger resettling to Germany to build his own studio in an old warehouse, you somehow knew they’d weren’t completely done. So, after delightfully shambolic Bigsound appearance in 2013, they get around a new single and even hints of some sort of career path. Hopefully not related to the new tune’s title, Crashing & Burning Pt II (Normal People Making Hits). They, showing admirable knowledge of the lingo of the kids, say its ‘Banging’. For mine, it flails about with enough of their familiar scruffy charm. Now, if they’d just stop burning through drummers at an almost Spinal Tap-esque rate, we’ll wait and see what happens. 

And if the Philly Jays nigh-on four years off was a time, the near legendary Siouxsie Sioux apparently hadn’t even wanted to create anything – let alone record it – for over eight. For those of you who came in late: without Siouxsie making her art from punk days onward, you’d very likely have no PJ Harvey, no Adalita, or Amanda Palmer, Kathleen Hanna, The Deal Sisters, probably even Florence avec or sans Machine, and a million more. Woman of guts, vision, talent, and not a little ‘well, fuck you!’ when necessary. But a divorce and the usual shit of life got her down, until Brian Reitzell tracked her down. Reitzell’s a soundtrack guy, notable among other things for getting My Bloody Valentine’s Kevin Shields to do the music for Lost In Translation after a, er, ‘hiatus’ of his own. Anyway, Brian discovers Siouxsie is a fan of the recent Hannibal series, and nudges her to co-write a song for the finale. Which they duly do. It quite naturally is called Love Crimes (Sioux), and is as moody a walk down a darkened hallway as you hope. 

From the ‘Well, fuck you!’ department in a whole different universe, it’s Miley Cyrus. Hopefully the, er, ‘fallout’ from her VMA hosting is passing – “I smoke pot!” Yes dear, of course you do – we get it. You’re a grown-up. Kinda. But, as well as dropping that curtain she was hiding a nipple behind, she’s also dropped a whole album, Her Dead Petz an hour-and-a-half of this week’s Miley with the aid and comfort of Flaming Lips’ Wayne Coyne in the role of understanding – if slightly batshit mental – kindly uncle. It’d be easy to dismiss, with the album containing such deep philosophical titles as Fuckin’ Fucked Up (which very much is…) but when she focuses a bit more, as with designated more lysergic single Karen Don’t Be Sad (RCA), you remember the girl can actually sing, and is a 22-year-old maybe working herself out after a completely unnatural childhood - with a father who sang Achy Breaky Heart. There’s a couple of years of therapy in that alone.

Sometimes, it’s like they’re just out to confuse you. Panic! At The Disco wish to announce they’ve discovered Frank Sinatra. No, really. And apparently not ironically. Emerging from the lounge bar of the Las Vegas Sahara, circa 1965, Brendon Urie raids the now-disused wardrobe department from Mad Men and presents Death Of A Bachelor (Fueled By Ramen). He croons, emotes, trips over the body of Bobby Darin, and finds himself the only member of the band actually left in the room. Whether he will now fill stadia, or end up at State Fairs or suburban Sydney RSL Clubs with this change of direction remains to be seen.

If you want something more timeless and frankly just plain good, the straight outta Austinmer sounds of Shining Bird. Rivermouth (Spunk) is one of those emotive, spirit of place titles, and does sound like it would say on the wrapper. Dane Taylor has the young Leonard Cohen croon - if indeed, Leonard Cohen was ever actually young in this life (now there’s a Zen question for you) – and the band arch up, and manage to leave almost Triffids-like spaces among the occasionally widescreen music. The Shining Bird in question is apparently a magpie, which as we enter spring suggests you watch out for one of the buggers swooping down and surprising you, as much as the quality of this music might.

It can get dark out in the sprawl of suburbia, too. Soon We Won’t Exist (Higher Plains) follows Tiny Little Houses’ cheery little titles such as Every Man Knows His Plague And You Are Mine, and the springtime gaiety of You Tore My Heart Out. It comes with the slightly moany pleasure of pondering a future they’re not in. But the emo is maybe undercut with some Australian dryness which redeems it from staring at its own belly button a little too long. This country needs its own Neutral Milk Hotel, although you wonder why we haven’t come up with one before this. 

There’s that certain mixed blessing to being noticed elsewhere in the world before your homeland. Stephanie Crase can still stroll the streets of her Adelaide hometown without being mobbed, unless by fans of previous combos she’d been involved in like No Through Road and Bat Rider – you know, those bands you’ve heard of, but probably never actually heard. She goes by the guise of Summer Flake now, and when he became one of the first to play The Sun Won’t Shine (Rice Is Nice) anywhere, Henry Rollins on his radio show fearlessly proclaimed how he “…loves this band!”, in that soft and understated way Hank would. The harmonies are drenching, but it remains just that little bit frayed to be interesting, and the flood of guitars about midway through is a nice surprise. 

Conversely, World’s End Press seem one of those bands always on the verge of it. Whatever ‘it’ is.  Tall Stories (Liberation) comes after we can talk about them supporting Primal Scream somewhere else in the world, and Cut Copy here. Song has a jaunty beep to it of the modern pop variety, which will see airplay in the all expected places. Whether this is the song to make them a household name, like Hoover or Bamix, is the question only the world can answer.