RuPaul's Drag Race season 9 recaps

The shadiest Drag Race recaps on the web. Get ready to death drop, queens!

The Bachelorette Australia recaps

One woman, 14 desperate men, mucho LOLs. Oh, and Osher Gunsberg.

The Bachelor Australia recaps

Sequins, spray tans and sex - it's season 3 of the world's stupidest dating show.

RuPaul's Drag Race Season 8 recaps

YASS, HUNTIES! Every episode of season eight recapped for your reading pleasure. Let's get sickening!

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Latin American TV is mental

You know how The Simpsons always pokes fun at Latin American television with "the bumblebee man" - a guy dressed as a giant bee who frequently falls over, or has eggs thrown at him, or gets hit in the head with a toaster and says "Ay ay ay, no me gusta!"?

Well I can tell you Latin American TV is nothing like that.

Giant bees? No!

Giant dwarves, yes.

Meanwhile, if anyone can tell what is actually going on in this scene, you're doing better than me.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Rock heaven: Jack White and Alabama Shakes at the Roseland, NYC

A sort-of review of Jack White's May 22 gig at NYC's Roseland Ballroom.

Long time readers of Bland Canyon know that I have what could be called "a mild crush" on rock star Jack White.

Actually, to call it "a mild crush" would be rather like describing September 11 as "a bit of a bad day"; I am utterly obsessed with him to the point of embarrassing myself.

Seriously, just looking at this photo makes me need to lie down. I'm not actually joking.

I've written about him a lot on here: About the time I got to see him and Bob Dylan in concert and almost fainted from delight, about how I wanted to do things to him even when he went through that weird Spanish Willy Wonka phase, how he turned me on as a Simpsons character and also is basically God, and a dream I had in which I lied to his band mate about being poisoned by bad prawns. That was a weird one.

So I like to think it was serendipity when one day a few months ago I thought "I wonder if Jack White's doing any shows anywhere?" and discovered tickets to his two New York shows at the Roseland Ballroom were going on sale the very next morning. SNAP! It was meant to be, etc. etc.

So it was that last night Barilski (the man responsible for introducing me to the White Stripes and starting this whole mess) and I trotted off to 52nd Street and walked under this marquee, feeling very smug and superior as sad-eyed people outside murmured "Do you have any spares?"

YEAH, I have a spare ticket to a sold-out show which hundreds of people are willing to sell their internal organs to get into, and I didn't think to scalp it before going inside. YOU'RE SMART.

That last pic is the only one I actually have from last night because the audience was requested not to take photographs during the concert.

"Jack asks that you all put your phones and cameras away and just enjoy the music - there will be professional photos available for you to download from his website," they announced.

My first reaction to this was "WHAT THE F***?", quickly followed by "Actually, that's a great idea." 

Remember the days before mobile phone cameras when people at concerts used to, you know, listen to the music instead of trying to take shitty pictures of everything? Jack White does, and he'd like to go back there thanks. And I'm with him. Because you know what, if Jack White tells you to do something, YOU DO IT, BEEYATCH.

Did I buy merch? YOU BET YOUR SWEET ONE I DID. I bought a T shirt, natch. Meanwhile, here are some Jack White lyrics I would like to have a on a T shirt, none of which was available on any T shirts sold last night:

I actually think the top three would sell quite well.
(I REALLY DO want that first one though.)

Enough about merch - HOW WAS THE SHOW? Pfft. Do you really need to ask?


The mood was set by the warm up band, blues rockers the Alabama Shakes, whose lead singer/guitarist Brittany Howard was so incendiary the mic almost caught fire. I have decided that if I can't marry Jack White, I would like to marry her, please. She sounded like the love child of a three-way between Amy Winehouse, Nina Simone and Janis Joplin, and sang like her life depended on it - wailing, howling and shaking while absolutely shredding her guitar. 

You've never seen a chick in glasses rock so fucking hard. (Photo source)

As you may have guessed from the title, "warm up bands" are supposed to warm up the crowd, not douse them in kerosene and set them on fire. This was unprecedented. When they left the stage Barilski and I both looked at each other and said "Jack White's going to have to put in some effort to top that." 

Yes, for a moment we both doubted the world's greatest guitar player and king of rock MIGHT not better the Alabama Shakes - THAT'S HOW GOOD THEY WERE.

And then. THEN. The lights dimmed, the hot all-lady band The Peacocks wandered out and then....

OH HAI. (Picture source)
(Side note: I think this was from an earlier concert on this tour, but this is how he looked last night)

With the release of his first solo album Blunderbuss Jack has dropped the traditional red, white and black colour scheme he adopted with the White Stripes and reinvented himself in blue. Dressed in a 1960s-style, slim-fitting blue mod suit and black shirt the six-foot-two guitar god looked... well, I think you can guess how this slick outfit made me feel.

A bit like this.

Without a word he came straight out the gate with the blistering Sixteen Saltines before busting into Missing Pieces which his drummer kindly fucked up for everyone, forcing Jack to sing weirdly off beat for the whole first verse. Sadly he didn't kick the drums over or smash a guitar over her head or anything rock and roll like that; instead he subtly and very professionally pulled a guitar solo, reset the song and kept going. Nice work, Jack.

"Hello New York! What do you want me to play?" he asked, as everyone screamed.

"Tell me what to play and I'll play it!" 

Play anything you damn well like, my lover. (Photo source)

He threw in plenty of nuggets for the long time fans - the White Stripes' Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground, We're Going to be Friends, a rocking Hardest Button to Button and a sped-up, ultra countrified Hotel Yorba.

He also played a few songs from his other, other band The Raconteurs and an EXTREMELY hot version of Blue Blood Blues by his other, other, other band The Dead Weather, which is in the running for a new award: The Song That Most Makes Me Want To Do Dirty Things As Soon As I Hear It Award. This video (not from last night) should explain why:

As if it couldn't get hotter than that, Jack busted out a fully pumped-up-rock-and-roll-on-steroids version of The White Stripes' Ball and Biscuit to finish in ball-tearing style. Given Ball and Biscuit is already one of the sexiest songs of all time, when you pump it full of dexys and then turn the testosterone level up to 11, you have a song that makes me do this:

This was the sexiest gif I could find. Sorry.

So there I was - the lights back on, Jack and his band gone, and me stuck in the middle of a sweaty crowd licking my lips and thinking sinful thoughts and wondering what I could do with myself that wouldn't get me arrested.

AND THEN, ALL OF A SUDDEN - the lights dropped, the curtains along the SIDE of the auditorium parted, and there was Jack and his other, all-male band, ready to kick a surprise encore on a second stage that had previously been the VIP seating area.

The entire room went spastic. The whole crowd turned to the right and rushed the new, previously hidden stage on which bewildered and formerly seated VIP guests were now being shooed to the sides by security, as Jack fired up his guitar for the most balls-to-the-wall rock set I have ever seen IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.

Ever since I first saw the White Stripes live at the Big Day Out in 2006 I have wanted to see Jack White perform Black Math, from the album Elephant. This is because it is an arse-tearingly good rock song, and one of my all-time favourites that I like to blast on repeat for up to 12 hours at a time.


It was kind of like this.

Could it get any better? Yes, it could. Next was another of my favourite songs, The Dead Weather's I Cut Like A Buffalo, a souped-up rock and hip-hop hybrid of a song drenched in Wurlitzer and crunchy guitar, and then The White Stripes' version of Catch Hell Blues

At this point I was moshing like a freak and covered in so much sweat I swear I was shaking droplets on people next to me. Sorry about that, people.

"IF YOU'RE GETTIN' TRICKY LYIN' TO YOURSELF YOU'RE GONNA CATCH HELL!" he wailed, as I tried not to faint from water loss and rock-god exposure and thought "ARE YOU KIDDING ME, JACK? MARRY ME GOD DAMMIT."

Just as I was wondering if the concert was going to go on forever, a notion I would not have been at all disappointed with, Jack got the room clapping a beat - and like a single, buzzing hive-mind, we all knew what to do.

"NA NA-NA-NA NA-NA, NAAAAAAAA," we chanted, which you of course recognise is the riff from Seven Nation Army

With the entire sold-out room chanting like a soccer crowd at the World Cup, Jack played and sang over the top and, WOW. I thought I was sick of that song but this totally reinvented it, reminded me why we all loved it so much in the first place.

And with a quick "Goodnight and thank you", he was gone.

In a word: Incredible.

In a few more words: One of the best, most energetic, joyful, surprising and generous performances I've ever seen anyone give ever. Jack White is sex AND talent, he clearly respects his fans and he can't be topped.


Expect another hysterical post in August...


POST SCRIPT: This magical unicorn of a concert was almost entirely ruined by two total arseholes next to me who insisted on talking all the way through it, and refused to shut up despite being asked to by THREE people (including me). This douchebaggery, and the ensuing thoughts of violence and murderous rage it inspired in me, will be the subject of a subsequent post. But as a small preview, they looked like this

I typed "douchebag couple" into Google images and this is what I got, and I SWEAR it looks EXACTLY like them.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

A lesson in '90s music appreciation

I tried to school my Year 7 class in 1990s Californian punk. It did not go well.

When I was growing up in the early 1990s my taste in music was almost wholly shaped by what my big sister was listening to, most of which had been recorded on the tape deck of whatever boyfriend she was dating at the time.

I may have been a 12 year old girl with daggy dress sense and no hope of kissing any boys for at least two years (it's true), but musically speaking I was actually a 17-year-old skateboarding dude with cool hair who played drums in his friend's band. I was super awesome.

So while all my girl friends were buying "Super Hot Hits '92" at Target I was rocking mix tapes of the Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, Rage Against the Machine, the Infectious Grooves, Faith No More and Living Colour.

How I loved (and love) them so.

While everyone else was singing along to Ace of Bass and Boyz II Men, I was riding on the tram wearing my cassette walkman silently mouthing "911 is a joke" and pretending my pretty western suburbs neighbourhood was actually a New York ghetto.

None of this, however, excuses me from the fact that my first ever album purchase was the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles soundtrack. I can only blame that on a temporary lapse of sanity, and also that I kind of liked MC Hammer at the time. (Hello, we ALL did.)

But it does explain why in 1992 I thought it would be an awesome idea to play the below song in my Year 7 "class karaoke" session, an activity my teacher no doubt thought would be a fun way to occupy his students for half an hour each week so he could get some marking done. He was in for a shock.

"I WILL BLOW THEIR TINY MINDS," I thought, knowing that the only RHCP song anyone at my school knew was "Under the Bridge".

Maybe I actually did, as everyone gave up on singing 10 seconds in, no one saw the funny side and my teacher banned classroom karaoke for the rest of the term.

It was worth it, though.

What are your first musical memories? Fess up - I admitted the TMNT thing.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

How does your lady garden grow?

Hey ladies, want to help me write an article? Tell me about what's in your pants.

Contrary to what some might think, I'm not generally interested in the contents of ladies' pants. (I guess it's the short hair and glasses that lead some people to believe I might be, but that's another story for another day).

 However I AM interested in the fashion trends dictating what women do with their "second hairdo" and what (if any) implications they have for feminism, society and the ultimate downfall of civilisation. So in the interests of research, I'd like you ladies to tell me:

How do you tame your bikini line? Traditional bikini wax/shave (sides off), Brazilian (all off), "runway" (all off but for a patch on the front), or do you let it grow wild and free? Do you dye it? Shave it into fancy patterns? Vajazzle? Or do you do something else entirely? TELL ME ALL!

You can leave your answer in the comments below (yes, you can be anonymous) but PLEASE LEAVE YOUR AGE, and what general part of the world you're in. Also if you want to share any bikini-related stories, or elaborate on why you wax/shave/grow the way you do, or what you think about certain hair "trends", please feel free.

Tina chose not to wax at all, opting to cover her minge with her left hand at all times.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Incredible Inedibles: Mexican Coke

Forget the Delorean, Americans relive the taste of the '70s south of the border.

My parents back in Australia love to hear about all the fun things I'm doing in New York. I regale them with stories about bar-hopping in SoHo and shopping on Fifth Avenue and tripping around the Guggenheim, and they always tut approvingly.

Then last week I told them I'd bought Mexican Coke and they started crying and begging me to call some woman called Betty Ford.

Fortunately I was able to explain just before mum broke into hysterics that Mexican Coke isn't an illicit white powder you buy from a bloke called Pablo in a Lower East Side alley, but rather Coca Cola manufactured in Mexico.

Even better than the real thing.

Sold in old-school glass bottles, the drink has something of a cult status here in America with foodies and hipsters alike traversing great distances and scouring through rusty old fridges in the back of Mexican delis just to get one.

Why? One ingredient: sugar.

Before 1980 Americans enjoyed their Coca Cola the way everyone else did - with 10 teaspoons of sugar in every can. Then the company began combining sugar with much cheaper high fructose corn syrup, and in 1984 it ditched sugar altogether, giving Generation X-ers yet one more thing to crap on about that was better when they were kids.

But in Mexico, one of the world's largest producers of sugar, high fructose corn syrup is actually a more expensive ingredient - so the drink's recipe there has remained unchanged.

Spot the difference.

People claim Mexican Coke is more "authentic" than regular American Coke, with sugar giving the drink a more "natural" taste. This of course means you can now buy it at trendy Brooklyn restaurants for three times the price.

Rumour has it Mexican Coke tastes even MORE natural if it is consumed while wearing ironic glasses and a silly moustache.

Now Australia, lucky country that it is, knows nothing of this cross-border flavour competition because, like Mexico, our version of Coca Cola is also made with cane sugar. Normally this would make my usual Incredible Inedibles tasting experiment redundant - I could just write "MEXICAN COKE. SAME AS AUSSIE COKE" and leave it at that.

But as someone who NEVER drinks regular Coca Cola (I am a Diet girl, thank you very much), I figured my test of Mexican Coke was just as much a test of cornified American Coke. So here's what I found.

Unsurprisingly, they looked exactly the same. Except the Mexican Coke was MUCH bubblier, as you can see in the photo - whether that was due to the presence of sugar, or being kept in bottle as opposed to a can, I can't say.

American Coke on the left, Mexican Coke on the right. 
Mexicans are renowned for being bubblier than Americans.*
*May not be true.

As for the flavour - I was surprised to discover there was definitely a subtle difference between the two. The American Coke tasted tangier and left a rather unpleasant sour aftertaste after several minutes, as though my mouth had been wiped out with an old gym sock. The Mexican Coke had a softer flavour, which I agree could be interpreted as more "natural" tasting. (Although is there anything more natural than an old gym sock? It practically has its own ecosystem.)

Sadly I was alone in this experiment so couldn't indulge a blind tasting - try as I might I just kept remembering which glass I'd poured each Coke into. Sorry.

I'm never going to be a Coca Cola drinker, because I think it tastes like liquefied fairy floss and I can feel my teeth melting every time I put it within one metre of my lips. But if a bloke named Pablo ever held a gun to my head in a Lower East Side alleyway and asked me to choose between the American or Mexican version - I'd go south of the border every time.

Thank your lucky sugar cane, Australia.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

When PR and blogs go wrong

A few weeks ago I received an email from chocolate company Ferrero Rocher asking if I'd like to review their new "Limited Edition Mothers' Day Hamper", presumably a giant basket filled with choccies specifically designed for mums to pop into their gobs while watching Pride and Prejudice, or something else with Colin Firth in it.

"We would like to send you the new Limited Edition Ferrero Mother's Day Hamper, free of charge - all we would need from you is a short review on your fantastic blog" they wrote, as I imagined stuffing myself full of chocolate and then writing something insightful like "CHOCLIT IS YUM BUY FERRO".


Then I remembered that I am actually in New York, and the chances of them sending me a basket of chocolate were quite small indeed. Then I remembered that my ACTUAL mum is in Adelaide, and also a writer, so why not get the hamper sent to her? That way she'd get a free mothers' day present, AND have to do the work. Brilliant, I thought.

They thought so too, and agreed to send my dear mummy the goods for her to review. Sadly however, the hamper never turned up. Poised with remote control in hand and Mr Darcy in his wet shirt on pause, she patiently waited until four days after Mothers' Day with no hamper in sight. Then she wrote this:


I seek it here
I seek it there
My promised gift 
Of Ferrero Rocher.
A basket full
for Mother's Day
A PR stunt
For mums to say
How choccies show
You love and care

Wherever that hamper ended up, I hope a deserving mum enjoyed it. Or a fat, lazy blogger who wrote something like "YAY FOR CHOCLOT YUMM!" - either/or.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

How to speak American: A video guide

Have you ever wondered what the English language sounds like to non-speakers? Wonder no more.

Thanks to Jim Henson, my generation knows that to communicate with a Swede all you need to do is go "hurdy gurdy doody doo meatballs" while pointing at things and they'll understand exactly what you're talking about.

Now I know what to say when I finally meet Alexander Skarsgard.

How we all chortled at the Swedish Chef, feeling cosy and superior in our dominant Anglo universe! Little did we know that while we were all laughing it up at the Muppets, the rest of the non-English-speaking world was in hysterics over OUR crazy language.

Well, Italy was at least. Check out Prisecolinensinenciousol, a 1972 nonsense song by Italian singer Adriano Celentano meant to emulate the sound of American English:

Weirdly, this is the best pop song Italy ever produced.

Just like that Pink Floyd album matches up with The Wizard of Oz if you cue it up correctly, if you do just the right amount of LSD at the beginning of Prisecolinensinenciousol, you can understand every word. Turns out he's singing about his dog. True story.

Sadly after eight months here in America and many, many accent-related communication breakdowns, I have neither had any success with shouting "YOU CAN CALL ME THE SILVER PRISECOLINENSINENCIOUSOL, ALRIGHT?" while pointing at sandwiches. Maybe I should try meatballs.

When it comes to mimicking American English the Italians did alright, I guess (apart from those outfits), but I think Australian director Brian Fairbairn captured it best with 2011 short film Skwerl:


This week I'm going to try "I firmass the Pope for cream!" and see where it gets me.

Tuesday, May 08, 2012

Giving DVDs the (net) flix

Hello, my name is Petra and I haven't been to a video shop in seven months and 24 days.

I used to be a regular renter. Almost every Friday night I'd hit my local DVD shop looking for a fix. I'd gotten hooked on new releases as a kid back in the '80s – all my friends watched them, and they were cheap and easy to pick up anywhere in the suburbs. It was a habit that was hard to shake.

My casual weekend renting quickly turned into regular midweek renting. I was going through five, six videos at a time – sometimes eight if I went on “Super Tuesday” when they also threw in a box of Maltesers for an extra $1.

Soon I'd churned through all the new releases and had to move on to “recent releases” (which were actually just the new releases I'd already seen) and then “classics” (which were the recent releases I'd already seen).

"The budget section, my favourite! I hope 'Extreme Cheapskates' is in."

And then, as with all addictions, what began as fun started to feel like a chore.

The video shop I once saw as a wonderland filled with thousands of exciting movie choices I now realised was just a medium-sized room housing an unnecessary number of copies of “Big Momma's House”, and no decent documentaries.

Every time I went there to rent a particular film I would invariably discover it had been already checked out/lost in 1993 and never replaced/eaten/destroyed in a fire.

The words “overnight rental” no longer filled me with joyful anticipation, but with dread, knowing that in just 24 hours I would have to return to the shop or be punished with a late fee.

One night as I sped there in my pyjamas and ugg boots for the third time that week trying to make the 10pm return deadline, I thought “There has to be a better way”.

After seven months and 24 days in America, I now know there is.

It's called The Internet. You may have heard of it, it's pretty popular.

Now instead of trudging along to a shop to stare at a wall of empty DVD cases for half an hour thinking “How is that STILL a new release?”, I kick back on the couch with my laptop, fire up Netflix and play any movie I want, instantly.

"Don't click that honey, that's daddy's special playlist..."

Like those in-room movie systems you get in hotels, Netflix is an online video shop that gives its subscribers unlimited access to tens of thousands of films and TV shows for less than US $8 a month.

It's not yet available in Australia, but alternatives are springing up in its place: this week Google launched Play and YouTube Movies, offering streaming of new release films for around $2 to $4 each.

Online services like this are the reason why there are now virtually no video stores left in America.

The idea of renting a movie in person is so archaic to most Americans that satirical news website The Onion even did a mock television report on a “historic Blockbuster museum” in which actors dressed as Blockbuster employees demonstrate how movies were rented “in the past”.

“It's really amazing that people had to go through so much just to get a movie,” one awe-struck tourist says, snapping a photograph of the quaint DVD displays.

I look back on my video-renting days in Australia and feel the same way. My dust-covered DVD player's days are definitely numbered. I can almost hear my old VCR laughing from that box in the garage.


This article was first published in the Adelaide Sunday Mail's TV Guide on May 6, 2012.

Ban the backyard and save Adelaide's parks

A friend from Adelaide visiting New York recently was enthusing about Central Park.

“I didn't realise it would have all that stuff in it,” he said, eyes wide.

“It had all these lakes and cafes and bike trails and little gardens. I thought it would just be, you know, a park.”

Given that Central Park spans 50 blocks and 843 acres, the idea that it would just be a huge empty lawn with a few lonely trees in it struck me as surreally amusing.

The original plans for Central Park were far less expensive, but a bit more boring.

Then again, I probably shouldn't have been surprised. Growing up in Adelaide, surrounded by the vast expanses of dull nothingness that are the Parklands (yes, I said it), that's how many of us think public spaces are supposed to be.

A park? That's a big, boring, open area with dried-out grass in it, and trees, and maybe a few (broken) benches. Definitely some bindis. Fountains? No way, too much water wastage. Public artwork? Too hard to keep the graffiti off. Somewhere to get a coffee or a drink? Shame on you, you're commercialising Colonel Light's dream! Don't even mention parking, or you'll be chased down King William Street with pitchforks.

Exactly what to do with the Parklands has long been a point of contention in Adelaide. Sadly, while the argument continues between those who campaign to keep them untouched and those who want to revamp them, the vast majority of the population just ignores them completely. Because they're almost all totally boring. Why would you go there?


Our five city squares aren't that user friendly either. Three of them are carved up by intersecting streets into virtually unusable chunks, and two aren't much more than pretty roundabouts.

We could do worse than take a leaf out of New York's design book.

Many people tend to think of New York as a city of no open space – millions of people crammed inside tiny apartments in huge skyscrapers, and not a speck of green amongst the grey. Funnily enough it's the  opposite. The city has more than 1700 parks across its five boroughs, and few of them are ever empty.

Perhaps because New York doesn't have the luxury of such wide open land that Adelaide does, its forced to treat its squares and parks in a more utilitarian manner, so they're not just spaces but useful spaces. There are always plenty of tables and chairs, fenced-off dog runs, plazas and amphitheatres where people can perform or hold markets.

As a result, they're always full of people enjoying them: eating lunch during their work day, walking their dogs, picnicking, gathering to dance and sing and busk, to read, to study, to meet people, to protest.

Can you imagine anyone picnicking in Hurtle Square? Sunbathing in Light Square? People would assume you were pulling a prank, and look around for the hidden cameras.

Admittedly, New Yorkers' enthusiasm for public parks probably springs in part from their lack of private backyards. If you don't have your own garden to relax in, you kind of have to go public.

Conversely, perhaps that's the same reason most Adelaideans ignore our city's parks. Maybe it's the reason why we're still talking about what to do with Victoria Square 175 years after it was built.

Here's my tip: Ban the backyard for a weekend. Head into the city and rediscover its squares. Work out how you'd like to use them, and how they could be changed for the better and tell the council. Then maybe one day visitors will be enthusing about all the “stuff” in Adelaide's parks.


This article was first published in Messenger Newspapers on May 3, 2012.

Wednesday, May 02, 2012

Nevada roller rink makes best ad ever

"Hey Bob, we really need to come up with a new campaign strategy for the Roller Kingdom. Kids just aren't interested in rollerskating anymore. They're too tied up with drugs and gangs and pregnancy."


Side note: The guys who made this glorious commercial are also responsible for the perennially hilarious "NOPE! Chuck Testa" ad, and they have a web series on iTunes. I can't wait for their first feature film.

Tuesday, May 01, 2012

Song smackdown: Delta vs Arcade Fire

It must be really hard being a pop star, having to come up with new tunes and lyrics and all that tricky stuff all the time so you can keep paying for sparkly new shoes and trips around the world and monkey butlers.

Take poor old Delta Goodrem. She hasn't had any new ideas since 2007. Maybe we can forgive her, I mean, it must be really hard to come up with a new album when all you've been thinking about is how to get Nick Jonas to take off his purity ring.

But it seems Delta's now solved her apparent writers block - by allegedly ripping off other bands' songs.

"Hey, I love this song - can I have it?"

Reports out today claim Delta's "comeback" single Sitting on Top of the World, which she's recently been promoting all over Australia, sounds suspiciously similar to 2005 Arcade Fire song Rebellion (Lies).

What do you think?