I’ve always found comfort in the hum of cicadas. Their lullaby soothes me to sleep as it drifts through the night, filling my dreams with the warm nostalgia of summers past (I feel sleepy just writing this).

I’d never been disturbed by their racket until last summer, when a lone cicada began serenading me from right outside my bedroom window. While the sound itself wasn’t off-putting (I sleep with white noise every night and, at first, I relished this natural ambient buzz) its stopping and starting continually roused me from sleep. After many nights of fitful rest, I found myself outside at 2am, in my t-shirt and undies, desperately trying to locate the creature and rehome it far, far away from my window. But as anyone who has tried to find a cicada knows, they sense your presence well before you’ve gotten close enough and immediately fall silent, making it near impossible to find them (touché evolution, touché). I spent those summer nights half-asleep with earplugs in, as a determined Romeo sang on. And in those hazy evenings when sleep evaded me entirely, I began to learn there’s far more to the buzzing than meets the ear.

Cicadas are ancient insects, part of a lineage that dates back over 200 million years, meaning their ancestors lived alongside the first dinosaurs. Their order, Hemiptera – also known as ‘true bugs’ – includes insects such as aphids, shield bugs, leafhoppers and water striders. Hemipterans start their lives as ‘nymphs’ (adorable) and can spend up to 17 years underground, depending on the species, feeding on the sap from plant roots before emerging to live a few horny weeks as adults.

Annual cicadas, the ones we hear each summer, spend three to five years underground and emerge in staggered waves so we can enjoy their song annually. Males are the soloists of the cicada world, using ribbed membranes called tymbals to belt out a rich, pulsing chorus that can reach 100 decibels (louder than a chainsaw), in an attempt to attract a mate. Listening to millions of cicadas at once can actually be hazardous to your hearing, so just as you’d protect your ears at a concert, it’s wise to do the same when enjoying these buzzy Bowies.

Females recognise the distinct song of their own species (of which there are thousands worldwide) and move toward the males. They make sweet buggy love, and the female uses her saw-like ovipositor – a specialised organ many female insects use to lay eggs (think of it like the long needles fertility specialists use in IVF) – to cut slits into small twigs or stems, where she deposits dozens of fertilised eggs. After several weeks, tiny nymphs hatch, drop to the ground and burrow, beginning the next cycle of life.

While there are more than 200 scientifically recognised species of cicada in Australia, possibly 800 or more remain unnamed, making the country a global hotspot for cicada diversity. We’ve been pretty creative with their names, too; Double Drummer, Yellow Monday, Chocolate Soldier, Floury Baker and Greengrocer lead the pack – far more imaginative than North America’s Giant Cicada or Bush Cicada. (Sorry, guys, but do better, OK?)

The United States might fall short on imaginative cicada names, but they make up for it with their fascinating periodical cicadas, which are unique to North America. These beguiling insects spend either 13 or 17 years underground as nymphs, biding their time until they emerge in swarms of biblical proportions. Interestingly, their prime-numbered life cycles throw predators off their timing, and when millions of cicadas emerge at once, the sheer numbers maximise their chances of mating. While their few weeks above ground are basically one giant, chaotic orgy, they eat very little and focus on mating to ensure the survival of the species.

Long before European colonisers arrived, Native Americans recognised the remarkable 13- and 17-year cycles of periodical cicadas, noting exactly when these insects would emerge in vast numbers. Many tribes held deep cultural connections to cicadas, viewing them as symbols of rebirth and survival, and some also had a tradition of harvesting and preparing them for food. Brood XIV, one of the largest 17-year periodical cicada broods, emerged again in 2025 across parts of Georgia, Kentucky, Indiana, New York, Ohio and Pennsylvania, with trillions of cicadas appearing in a synchronised, buzzing mass.

Regardless of species, whether annual or periodical, all cicadas share one fascinating feature: their exoskeleton. This tough, chitinous shell provides structure and protection – and is made of the same material crustaceans favour! It’s also what they leave behind when moulting from nymph to adult and is probably the image that first comes to mind when you think of cicadas, as the golden-brown husks cling to tree trunks, fences, or garden walls (they also make a pretty cool souvenir).

If I’m so blessed to have another little Casanova outside my window this summer, you know I’ll be rooting for him as he buzzes wildly to find a mate, all the while marvelling that I’m listening to a creature vibrating in much the same way it did 200 million years ago.

This feature comes straight from the pages of issue 129. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.