Internet Cult Legends Panchiko on the Band's Unlikely Comeback

Nowadays, it's easy to take for granted the significance of the internet in the rise of musicians who may not have otherwise attained widespread recognition. Justin Bieber was just some homeschooled kid from Canada who posted videos of himself singing on YouTube. The Weeknd also went viral on YouTube and Tumblr before signing with a major record label. Shawn Mendes was discovered on the now-defunct social media platform Vine, of all places.

But perhaps there's no internet-era music success story more extraordinary and improbable than that of the British indie-rock band Panchiko. That's because Panchiko — formed in 1997 by four Nottingham high school students — predates music streaming, social media, and the 21st Century altogether. The fact that you're even reading about Panchiko right now shows that the internet has a formidable life of its own when it comes to the propagation of music fandom and the determinism of cult followings.

Remember those plastic drink coaster-looking things called CDs? In 2000, they were still the audio format of choice for musicians hoping to get heard by record labels and the press. However, CDs didn't help Panchiko much in that regard when the band distributed 30 copies of its self-produced first demo. Facetiously titled D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L, the sound on the EP was anything but, serving up a lo-fi blend of emo, dream pop, shoegaze, and trip-hop instead. Failing to get signed by any labels or fill local concert venues, the foursome disbanded the following year.

"The project was not going anywhere," lead singer Owain Davies tells New Times about its inevitable dissolution. "We didn't really understand where to start to get things to the next level or get our music in front of the people who could help. This was before the internet changed the way we listen to and find out about music, so it was quite easy to disappear if you weren't on it."

Disappear is precisely what Panchiko did after 2001. Most of the band members pursued college degrees and professions outside of music. Some went on to start families. One of them even enlisted in the military. Life went on, as it usually does — two decades' worth, to be exact. And this is where the Panchiko story begins to take on some serious Searching for Sugar Man vibes.

As Davies remembers, it was a cold January morning in 2020 when he awoke to a bewildering message on Facebook. "I rarely interact there, so it was a bit weird," he says. "They asked if I was in Panchiko, and I thought this a bit odd, as we had never put our music on the internet, so how could anyone know about Panchiko? I almost didn't reply, but curiosity got the better of me."

No healthy amount of curiosity could have prepared Davies for the dumbfounding rabbit hole he was about to get sucked into. By the time he got through it, he would learn that a copy of Panchiko's D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L demo CD had been discovered at a Nottingham thrift store by an anonymous shopper in 2016, its tracks digitally ripped and then disseminated by a growing community of fans across online platforms like 4chan, YouTube, Reddit, and Discord.
While its former band members were busy living their adult lives, light years away from their adolescent dreams of rock stardom, Panchiko had unknowingly grown a cult following. The Facebook message Davies received was a fan's attempt to track down a better-quality version of the degraded audio from that disc-rotted CD demo. Subsequent Google searches by Davies and company uncovered a vast international network of Panchiko fans eager for any information to be had about the enigmatic masterminds behind D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L since the CD had offered nothing more than the members' first names in the liner notes.

"Initially, I thought it was best left in the past," Davies admits. "But when I found out how much time and effort people had put into tracking us down, I thought it's not our music anymore; it's theirs."

He's not wrong. In 2023, the vox populi clamoring for Panchiko across the Atlantic has not only managed to reunite three-fourths of the original lineup but also coaxed a debut LP and U.S. tour out of the band.

"Most bands form because of some common factor," says guitarist Andy Wright. "In Panchiko's case, we've reformed because we've been told to by a million people."

"It was a pretty easy decision for us to get back together, especially as I don't think we really had a fair shot the first time," he adds. "Not that the industry was against us the first time around. We're by no means victims; we just didn't know what to do. We're very grateful for another chance."

The band's new album, Failed At Math(s), picks up where its now-fabled first EP left off. "The intention was to begin to understand what Panchiko is now and to draw a line under some of the songs demoed 25 years ago, but we never quite finished," Wright explains. "We wanted to create something we're proud of and something that still has a sense of coherence while moving around in terms of genre, just like D>E>A>T>H>M>E>T>A>L did."

"We're really looking forward to playing in Miami," he adds. "This whole thing is a dream for us."

Panchiko. With Horse Jumper of Love and LSD and the Search for God. 8 p.m. Wednesday, May 24, at Gramps, 176 NW 24th St., Miami; gramps.com. Sold out.