An Unexpected Delivery: The Time I Saw Parcels and Why It Still Haunts Me

The first time I saw Parcels, I hated them. It wasn’t because their show sucked and they’d ruined live music for me forever or anything like that. It was because there was only one check-in desk open at Berlin Airport and they were ahead of me, checking an insane amount of bags, boxes and cases, piece by enormous piece. At first, I didn’t know who they were or why they had such a ridiculous amount of luggage, all I knew was that they were taking forever, and I had a plane to catch. Flushed with anger, I glared at them, scrutinizing every annoying detail of these nonchalant time wasters. They seemed to be doing a bit for the benefit of onlookers — being overly dramatic, goofing around, and laughing loudly together, as if unaware that the entire long check-in line hated them.

At this point I should mention that they were dressed to attract attention. And the more I examined them, the more I realized the likelihood they were a band. In fact, in their super-short jean cut-offs, white tank tops, bleached hair, sunglasses, and for one of them, a killer mustache, they seemed like caricatures of a band from Berlin. Were they some kind of Beach Boys tribute act? It was a very strong look to take to the airport and amidst the crowd of exhausted travelers in sweatsuits, they could not have stood out more. 

As they continued to heave their endless cargo onto the conveyor belt, I tried to figure out who they were. Their conspicuous looks were matched by a perky self-conscious vibe that suggested they expected to be recognized. They were acting like they were famous, and yet they had to load their own tour gear. As I tried to rationalize the things that I was seeing and piece them together, I decided they must be well-known in the clubs of Berlin, but have yet to hit the big time. There was another, more conventionally dressed, guy with them who might have been their manager, but he wasn’t helping at all. The whole thing felt very Spinal Tap. In fact, the whole scene had the air of a sitcom, with myself and the other impatient passengers as unwilling extras. 

So, who were these guys and what kind of music did they make? I was being too cool and uninterested to actually ask them, so I furtively studied the clues. As what might have been a deconstructed drum kit was checked in, it finally occurred to me that all their gear was labeled with the word “parcels” not because it was a cute German way of tagging large amounts of luggage, but because that was their band name. 

Later, waiting in line for security, laptop and toiletries tucked under one arm to leave my hands free for googling, I started to research this mysterious band. What I found shocked me to my core: they had called themselves Parcels of their own free will, they had collaborated with Daft Punk, they had over two million monthly listeners, AND they weren’t even German. This last news was disappointing as I’d constructed a whole life for them in Berlin, where they played electro-pop gigs at night and ran a shelter for stray animals by day. They had seemed so quirky and mysterious and European. But their fun haircuts and highly stylized aesthetics had fooled me. They were actually Australian expats (from a surfing town, so Beach Boys harmonies were back on the table), now based in Berlin.

Sitting at the gate, toying unenthusiastically with an underwhelming airport sandwich, I realized something fantastic: my new obsession, my favorite band I’d never listened to, were not only in the Berlin airport with me, they were waiting for the same flight to London. Between bites of limp tomato, I started composing my own lore about them, allowing myself to become a fanatic. One bandmate was reading a couple rows in front of me, so I took a zoomed in picture to identify his book. It’s This is Your Mind on Plants by Michael Pollan, a book about opium, caffeine, and mescaline and their effects on human culture and vice versa. Paired with the swanky garment bag draped over the chair next to him, new layers are added to his cool guy attitude. One of his bandmates comes over to say something to him before pointedly stalking off to sit somewhere else. A third member sits as far away as possible from both of them. The rest of the band are either nowhere to be seen or I’d already forgotten what they looked like and couldn’t find them again. The besuited guy I’d assumed was their manager seemed beyond stressed and was literally pacing between them.

Now I was hooked, and the airport gate had turned into a Housewives set. Was the smoothness and charm at check-in just an act for any fans in line? Do they hate each other? Has something happened recently to create a rift between them? Are these guys more like a bunch of moody, introspective loners? I’m thinking angsty lyrics and complex guitar riffs — could Parcels be an emo band? Possibly. But there has to be more to it than that. They are actively repelling each other like magnets with the same polarity. When we start boarding the plane, some of them get on (separately) as quickly as possible while others hang back (separately) at the gate. I peer into First Class to confirm they’re not sitting together, before the cabin crew redirect me to the back of the plane. How to translate this (comparatively) luxe yet lonely lifestyle into a sound — maybe dreamy synth music with dark overtones that worm their way into your brain? When we land at Heathrow, huge excitement: one of them sits next to me on the bus taking us to the terminal. He’s staring at his phone, so I stare at it too. He is online shopping for a new wallet. What does it all mean? I’m starting to feel like I’m in a spy thriller. 

At Heathrow, we finally parted ways. I flew on to Boston while the Parcels headed to New York. Out of sight, but not out of mind. I spent my whole flight back inventing explanations for their weird dynamic. A simple spat would be too boring. I decided it had to be something extravagant yet impossibly trivial that had caused this rift, possibly concerning whatever was in that garment bag. It was all very rock ‘n’ roll. At immigration, I’m still thinking about the enigma that is Parcels. I mean, who are these guys? After researching their upcoming US tour, and talking myself out of rearranging my entire life to see them live — a  decision I look back on with regret — I decide it’s time to listen to the actual music…

What am I expecting from this band I’d never heard of? Honestly, based on everything I’ve learned so far, I am ready for anything. Techno? Trance? Sixties bubblegum? Prog rock? Maybe everything all at once, with each band member playing a different style in the far corners of the studio, like their airport lounge arrangement? Bring it on. As I press play, I feel nervous for them, like when your friends play their first gig and you really really don’t want them to fail….

Tieduprightnow (Parcelsdon’tdospacesbetweenwords, it’stheirthing) comes on and it only makes me more obsessed. An incessant beat and some funky bass licks is not what I had expected from Parcels and their jorts, but I’m delighted. The song is deceptively simple but undeniably groovy. The fun instrumentation mixed with breathy vocals and, yes, Beach Boys-ie harmonies make it impossible to stay still; I am compelled to dance along. This one track has answered my questions, and I am finally at peace. I add a few of their songs to some playlists and, for the most part, completely forget about them. But whenever they pop up on shuffle I’m brought back to Berlin, and their mysterious airport dynamic.

At the gate that day they could not have been more separate, but I’m telling you, when Parcels are making music they are tighter than tight.