Dead Oceans Rock & Indie 160 Items

Toro y Moi's seventh studio album, Mahal, is the boldest and most fascinating journey yet from musical mastermind Chaz Bear. The record spans genre and sound_encompassing the shaggy psychedelic rock of the 1960s and `70s, and the airy sounds of 1990s mod-post-rock_taking listeners on an auditory expedition, as if they're riding in the back of Bear's Filipino jeepney that adorns the album's cover. But Mahal is also an unmistakably Toro y Moi experience, calling back to previous works while charting a new path forward in a way that only Bear can do. Mahal is the latest in an accomplished career for Bear, who's undoubtedly one of the decade's most influential musicians. Since the release of the electronic pop landmark Causers of This in 2009, subsequent records as Toro y Moi have repeatedly shifted the idea of what his sound can be. But there's little in Bear's catalog that will prepare you for the deep-groove excursions on Mahal, his most eclectic record to date. The second the album begins we're immediately transported into the passenger seat, jeep sounds and all, ready for the ride Chaz and company have concocted for us. Seeds of some of Mahal's 13 songs date back to the more explicitly rock-oriented What For? from 2015. Mahal was mostly completed last year in Bear's Oakland studio with the involvement of a host of collaborators, Sofie Royer and Unknown Mortal Orchestra's Ruban Neilson to Neon Indian's Alan Palomo and the Mattson 2. "I wanted to make a record that featured more musicians on it than any other record of mine," he explains. "To have them live on that record feels grounded, bringing a communal perspective to the table." As a result, Mahal is lush and surprising at every turn, from the cool-handed "The Loop," which recalls Sly and the Family Stones, to the elastic psych rock of "Foreplay" and the dizzying Mulatu Astatke-recalling of "Last Year." Lyrically, the album zooms in on generational concerns, picking up where the Outer Peace standout "Freelance" effectively left off. Bear seems to be surveying the ways in which we connect with technology, media, each other, and what disappears as a result. Cuts like the squishy "Postman" and the "Magazine" take a deep dive into our relationship with media in a changing digital world. "It's interesting to see how we adapt to this new age. We're so connected, but we're still missing out on things," Bear ruminates while discussing the album's themes. It's not all introspection. Bear cools things down near the album's end with the Mattson 2-featuring "Millennium," a laid-back jam with tricky guitar licks about ringing in new times even when everything else seems upside down. "It's about enjoying the new year, even when it's been shitty," Bear explains. "There's nothing else to do." Finding a sense of joy in the face of adversity is embedded in Mahal's DNA, right down to the jeepney that literally and figuratively brings the music out into the community. "We know that touring is messed up for now, and large gatherings are a fluke," he explains. "It's about the notion of us going out to the people and bringing the record to them." And with the wide-open atmosphere of Mahal, Toro y Moi stands to connect with more listeners than ever before.

Toro y Moi's seventh studio album, Mahal, is the boldest and most fascinating journey yet from musical mastermind Chaz Bear. The record spans genre and sound_encompassing the shaggy psychedelic rock of the 1960s and `70s, and the airy sounds of 1990s mod-post-rock_taking listeners on an auditory expedition, as if they're riding in the back of Bear's Filipino jeepney that adorns the album's cover. But Mahal is also an unmistakably Toro y Moi experience, calling back to previous works while charting a new path forward in a way that only Bear can do. Mahal is the latest in an accomplished career for Bear, who's undoubtedly one of the decade's most influential musicians. Since the release of the electronic pop landmark Causers of This in 2009, subsequent records as Toro y Moi have repeatedly shifted the idea of what his sound can be. But there's little in Bear's catalog that will prepare you for the deep-groove excursions on Mahal, his most eclectic record to date. The second the album begins we're immediately transported into the passenger seat, jeep sounds and all, ready for the ride Chaz and company have concocted for us. Seeds of some of Mahal's 13 songs date back to the more explicitly rock-oriented What For? from 2015. Mahal was mostly completed last year in Bear's Oakland studio with the involvement of a host of collaborators, Sofie Royer and Unknown Mortal Orchestra's Ruban Neilson to Neon Indian's Alan Palomo and the Mattson 2. "I wanted to make a record that featured more musicians on it than any other record of mine," he explains. "To have them live on that record feels grounded, bringing a communal perspective to the table." As a result, Mahal is lush and surprising at every turn, from the cool-handed "The Loop," which recalls Sly and the Family Stones, to the elastic psych rock of "Foreplay" and the dizzying Mulatu Astatke-recalling of "Last Year." Lyrically, the album zooms in on generational concerns, picking up where the Outer Peace standout "Freelance" effectively left off. Bear seems to be surveying the ways in which we connect with technology, media, each other, and what disappears as a result. Cuts like the squishy "Postman" and the "Magazine" take a deep dive into our relationship with media in a changing digital world. "It's interesting to see how we adapt to this new age. We're so connected, but we're still missing out on things," Bear ruminates while discussing the album's themes. It's not all introspection. Bear cools things down near the album's end with the Mattson 2-featuring "Millennium," a laid-back jam with tricky guitar licks about ringing in new times even when everything else seems upside down. "It's about enjoying the new year, even when it's been shitty," Bear explains. "There's nothing else to do." Finding a sense of joy in the face of adversity is embedded in Mahal's DNA, right down to the jeepney that literally and figuratively brings the music out into the community. "We know that touring is messed up for now, and large gatherings are a fluke," he explains. "It's about the notion of us going out to the people and bringing the record to them." And with the wide-open atmosphere of Mahal, Toro y Moi stands to connect with more listeners than ever before.

Deluxe Edition on Red Vinyl. shame's deluxe Drunk Tank Pink pulls back the curtain from the James Ford productions to reveal the entire album in an early demo form. The recordings are taken from the attic of bass player Josh Finerty's childhood home, where the band holed themselves up to commence writing. Paired with the fully formed album, the bonus LP is a fascinating and intimate insight into how the critically acclaimed record came to be.

Fenne was born in London and moved to Dorset as a toddler, where she grew up in the picturesque English countryside. She was a "free range kid," as she calls it, after her parents took her out of school for a period at the age of seven. Over the following year, they taught her while the family travelled Europe in a live-in bus. Even after she returned to traditional school at 9, her home education never ended, extending to music. Her mother gifted Fenne with her old record collection, through which she discovered her love for T-Rex and the Velvet Underground and Nico. Soon after she fell for the strange genius of PJ Harvey and came to worship Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell, and the richly crafted worlds of Feist, which inspired Fenne to pick up a guitar. "On Hold," a tender collection of expressive, open-hearted songs, was Fenne's first foray into songwriting, written during her teenage years. Writing her own songs was initially a "therapy exercise" for Fenne, who is normally reserved when it comes to talking about her feelings. The album, self-released in 2018, organically found a large audience online, which grew after she opened for Lucy Dacus and Andy Shauf's North American tours last spring. Surrounding its release, The Line of Best Fit deemed Fenne "a new and extraordinary voice capable of wringing profound and resonant moments out of loss." In Fenne's words, "To have this record physically rereleased is a big deal for me and the person I was when I made it. A lot's changed since then but these songs and what they've given me will remain dependable reminders of beginnings and endings that shaped me as a teenager. For an album whose title is half `hold', it makes sense that now whoever wants to can finally do that again."

Fenne was born in London and moved to Dorset as a toddler, where she grew up in the picturesque English countryside. She was a "free range kid," as she calls it, after her parents took her out of school for a period at the age of seven. Over the following year, they taught her while the family travelled Europe in a live-in bus. Even after she returned to traditional school at 9, her home education never ended, extending to music. Her mother gifted Fenne with her old record collection, through which she discovered her love for T-Rex and the Velvet Underground and Nico. Soon after she fell for the strange genius of PJ Harvey and came to worship Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell, and the richly crafted worlds of Feist, which inspired Fenne to pick up a guitar. "On Hold," a tender collection of expressive, open-hearted songs, was Fenne's first foray into songwriting, written during her teenage years. Writing her own songs was initially a "therapy exercise" for Fenne, who is normally reserved when it comes to talking about her feelings. The album, self-released in 2018, organically found a large audience online, which grew after she opened for Lucy Dacus and Andy Shauf's North American tours last spring. Surrounding its release, The Line of Best Fit deemed Fenne "a new and extraordinary voice capable of wringing profound and resonant moments out of loss." In Fenne's words, "To have this record physically rereleased is a big deal for me and the person I was when I made it. A lot's changed since then but these songs and what they've given me will remain dependable reminders of beginnings and endings that shaped me as a teenager. For an album whose title is half `hold', it makes sense that now whoever wants to can finally do that again."

We don't typically look to pop albums to answer our cultural moment, let alone to meet the soul hunger left in the wake of global catastrophe. But occasionally, an artist proves the form more malleable and capacious than we knew. With Laurel Hell, Mitski cements her reputation as an artist in possession of such power - capable of using her talent to perform the alchemy that turns our most savage and alienated experiences into the very elixir that cures them. Her critically beloved last album, Be the Cowboy, built on the breakout acclaim of 2016's Puberty 2 and launched her from cult favorite to indie star. She ascended amid a fever of national division, and the grind of touring and pitfalls of increased visibility influenced her music as much as her spirit. Like the mountain laurels for this new album is named, public perception, like the intoxicating prism of the internet, can offer an alluring façade that obscures a deadly trap _ one that tightens the more you struggle. Exhausted by this warped mirror, and our addiction to false binaries, she began writing songs that stripped away the masks and revealed the complex and often contradictory realities behind them. She wrote many of these songs during or before 2018, while the album finished mixing in May 2021. It is the longest span of time Mitski has ever spent on a record, and a process that concluded amid a radically changed world. She recorded Laurel Hell with her longtime producer Patrick Hyland throughout the isolation of a global pandemic, during which some of the songs "slowly took on new forms and meanings, like seed to flower." Sometimes it's hard to see the change when you're the agent of it, but for the lucky rest of us, Mitski has written a soundtrack for transformation, a map to the place where vulnerability and resilience, sorrow and delight, error and transcendence can all sit within our humanity, can all be seen as worthy of acknowledgment, and ultimately, love.

We don't typically look to pop albums to answer our cultural moment, let alone to meet the soul hunger left in the wake of global catastrophe. But occasionally, an artist proves the form more malleable and capacious than we knew. With Laurel Hell, Mitski cements her reputation as an artist in possession of such power - capable of using her talent to perform the alchemy that turns our most savage and alienated experiences into the very elixir that cures them. Her critically beloved last album, Be the Cowboy, built on the breakout acclaim of 2016's Puberty 2 and launched her from cult favorite to indie star. She ascended amid a fever of national division, and the grind of touring and pitfalls of increased visibility influenced her music as much as her spirit. Like the mountain laurels for this new album is named, public perception, like the intoxicating prism of the internet, can offer an alluring façade that obscures a deadly trap _ one that tightens the more you struggle. Exhausted by this warped mirror, and our addiction to false binaries, she began writing songs that stripped away the masks and revealed the complex and often contradictory realities behind them. She wrote many of these songs during or before 2018, while the album finished mixing in May 2021. It is the longest span of time Mitski has ever spent on a record, and a process that concluded amid a radically changed world. She recorded Laurel Hell with her longtime producer Patrick Hyland throughout the isolation of a global pandemic, during which some of the songs "slowly took on new forms and meanings, like seed to flower." Sometimes it's hard to see the change when you're the agent of it, but for the lucky rest of us, Mitski has written a soundtrack for transformation, a map to the place where vulnerability and resilience, sorrow and delight, error and transcendence can all sit within our humanity, can all be seen as worthy of acknowledgment, and ultimately, love.

We don't typically look to pop albums to answer our cultural moment, let alone to meet the soul hunger left in the wake of global catastrophe. But occasionally, an artist proves the form more malleable and capacious than we knew. With Laurel Hell, Mitski cements her reputation as an artist in possession of such power - capable of using her talent to perform the alchemy that turns our most savage and alienated experiences into the very elixir that cures them. Her critically beloved last album, Be the Cowboy, built on the breakout acclaim of 2016's Puberty 2 and launched her from cult favorite to indie star. She ascended amid a fever of national division, and the grind of touring and pitfalls of increased visibility influenced her music as much as her spirit. Like the mountain laurels for this new album is named, public perception, like the intoxicating prism of the internet, can offer an alluring façade that obscures a deadly trap _ one that tightens the more you struggle. Exhausted by this warped mirror, and our addiction to false binaries, she began writing songs that stripped away the masks and revealed the complex and often contradictory realities behind them. She wrote many of these songs during or before 2018, while the album finished mixing in May 2021. It is the longest span of time Mitski has ever spent on a record, and a process that concluded amid a radically changed world. She recorded Laurel Hell with her longtime producer Patrick Hyland throughout the isolation of a global pandemic, during which some of the songs "slowly took on new forms and meanings, like seed to flower." Sometimes it's hard to see the change when you're the agent of it, but for the lucky rest of us, Mitski has written a soundtrack for transformation, a map to the place where vulnerability and resilience, sorrow and delight, error and transcendence can all sit within our humanity, can all be seen as worthy of acknowledgment, and ultimately, love.

Dead Oceans has announced the re-issue of Bill Fay's Still Some Light, a double compilation album made up of 70s album demos and 2009 home recordings. Released in two parts, pressed on vinyl and out digitally for the first time, `Still Some Light Part 1' is released 14th Jan, 2022. Alongside, Dead Oceans has announced plans of a special series of four 7" singles, consisting of different musicians' interpretations of Bill Fay classics. The first two (one a cover of `Dust Filled Room' by Steve Gunn and the second, Kevin Morby's version of `I Hear You Calling') will also be released 14th Jan, 2022.

"Bill Fay's music was a revelation to me when I first discovered it: the commanding power of his words; the modest, universal language of his sorrow. And listening to his music still makes me feel as if an old friend had been lingering in the shadows, emerging at just the right time. It was a real honor to record one of my favorites of his, "Dust Filled Room". - Steve Gunn, Brooklyn, NY Dead Oceans has announced the re-issue of Bill Fay's Still Some Light, a double compilation album made up of 70s album demos and 2009 home recordings. Released in two parts, pressed on vinyl and out digitally for the first time, `Still Some Light Part 1' is released 14th Jan, 2022. Alongside, Dead Oceans has announced plans of a special series of four 7" singles, consisting of different musicians' interpretations of Bill Fay classics. The first two (one a cover of `Dust Filled Room' by Steve Gunn and the second, Kevin Morby's version of `I Hear You Calling') will also be released 14th Jan, 2022.

Bill Fay has always sung about attempting to understand the most universal questions: those of nature, spirituality, humanity. His songs are "calming hymns for another chaotic time", he says. His influence can be traced through many artist's work, and so it only seemed right to celebrate this with a collection of newer voices interpreting his timeless tracks. Originally released in 2010 by David Tibet (Current 93), Still Some Light was released as a double CD, made up of 70's album demos (Disc One) and 2009 home recordings (Disc Two). This year, for the first time, this collection of recordings will be pressed to vinyl and released digitally, presented alongside contemporary reimaginings of the tracks by Kevin Morby, Steve Gunn, Julia Jacklin and Mary Lattimore. Bill Fay's words and melodies remain unaffected by the passing of time and changing trends; and here alongside the original recordings, these reinvented versions still calmly guide us through another moment of chaos. Bill Fay's Still Some Light was originally released on compact disc as a two CD collection in 2010. Reimagined with new artwork and available for the first time ever on vinyl, Dead Oceans is pleased to present Still Some Light Pt. 1, collecting Fay's archival recordings from 1970 and 1971. Many of the songs are intimate sketches which were eventually re-recorded for Fay's self-titled debut and for his landmark album, Time of the Last Persecution. This double LP set includes heart wrenching versions of some of his timeless works, such as "I Hear You Calling" and "Pictures of Adolf Again", and features equally powerful songs like "Arnold is a Simple Man" and "Love is the Tune," which only appear in this collection.

Deluxe Edition on Crystal Clear Vinyl. shame's deluxe Drunk Tank Pink pulls back the curtain from the James Ford productions to reveal the entire album in an early demo form. The recordings are taken from the attic of bass player Josh Finerty's childhood home, where the band holed themselves up to commence writing. Paired with the fully formed album, the bonus LP is a fascinating and intimate insight into how the critically acclaimed record came to be.

Repress.Kaputt Is His Latest Vision: An Opulent, Lyrical, Game-Changing Masterpiece To Rank With The Choicest Works Of Sade, Scritti Politti, Simply Red And Steely Dan. For A More Contemporary Touchstone, Feel Free To Consider It The Sad-Eyed Psychic Cousin Of Gayngs' Smooth Opus Relayted. These Elaborate Songs Were Lovingly Crafted By A Large Studio Ensemble Of Dedicated Players.Kaputt Was Released By The Good People Of Merge In North America, Entering The Billboard Chart At Number 62 And Receiving Exultant Hosannas From Such August Publications As The New York Times, Rolling Stone, Spin And The Washington Post.

Friends! I am so pleased to announce A Night At The Little Los Angeles - the 4-track version of Sundowner. Recorded at home and in my back shed - aka The Little Los Angeles - in suburban Kansas during the summer and winter seasons of 2017 and 2018. This is quite simply the sound of me alone in a room with a four-track to catch my songs as they fell out of my mouth. When I later went into a proper studio to make Sundowner my goal was to capture the essence of these initial recordings, and here you will now have access to the very essence I was chasing. In many ways, this feels like a proper album to me, as it's my initial attempt to capture the Kansas sunset and put it into sound, where as Sundower was an attempt of an attempt. I love and am proud of them both, of course, but am happy to - for the first time - share this vulnerable side of my songwriting process with the public. Many of my favorite recordings have been made inside of an artist's home without regard of the outside world, but instead deep in their own world that they're creating in real time. And with that - I'd like to invite you into my own little world here and now and ask you to please....step inside of....and spend A Night At The Little Los Angeles! - Kevin Morby ****** Sundowner is Morby's "attempt to put the Middle American twilight -- its beauty profound, though not always immediate -- into sound." Released in fall 2020 on Dead Oceans, Morby's distinctively conversational and reflective writing style was received with open arms and was beloved by fans and critics alike. Pitchfork lauded it as "a vision of the Midwest that feels mythical and enormous."

Friends! I am so pleased to announce A Night At The Little Los Angeles - the 4-track version of Sundowner. Recorded at home and in my back shed - aka The Little Los Angeles - in suburban Kansas during the summer and winter seasons of 2017 and 2018. This is quite simply the sound of me alone in a room with a four-track to catch my songs as they fell out of my mouth. When I later went into a proper studio to make Sundowner my goal was to capture the essence of these initial recordings, and here you will now have access to the very essence I was chasing. In many ways, this feels like a proper album to me, as it's my initial attempt to capture the Kansas sunset and put it into sound, where as Sundower was an attempt of an attempt. I love and am proud of them both, of course, but am happy to - for the first time - share this vulnerable side of my songwriting process with the public. Many of my favorite recordings have been made inside of an artist's home without regard of the outside world, but instead deep in their own world that they're creating in real time. And with that - I'd like to invite you into my own little world here and now and ask you to please....step inside of....and spend A Night At The Little Los Angeles! - Kevin Morby ****** Sundowner is Morby's "attempt to put the Middle American twilight -- its beauty profound, though not always immediate -- into sound." Released in fall 2020 on Dead Oceans, Morby's distinctively conversational and reflective writing style was received with open arms and was beloved by fans and critics alike. Pitchfork lauded it as "a vision of the Midwest that feels mythical and enormous."

“Last spring, Devendra Banhart and Noah Georgeson started to make a record that was like nothing they had made before _ an ambient album that would be both a haven from a suddenly terrified world and a heartfelt musical dialogue between two artists who have been friends and collaborators for over two decades. Refuge is an album of profound meditative beauty which offers the listener a much-needed sense of peace and renewal. But while it was recorded in 2020 its roots go back much further _ all the way to the start of their friendship and, beyond that, to the shared sounds and ethics of their childhoods. Devendra grew up in Venezuela while Noah, six years older, is a native of Nevada City, California. But as they got to know each other, they realised that they had a similar history in the New Age subculture of the 1980s: a world of meditation, Eastern music, the Bhagavad Gita and The Whole Earth Catalog. Childhood memories were coloured by the aromas of health food stores and the sound of New Age labels like Windham Hill Records. Noah, whose production and mixing credits include Joanna Newsom and the Strokes, came on board as co-producer of Devendra's 2005 album Cripple Crow and they have been working together ever since. It was while making Devendra's 2019 album Ma that the pair finally decided to make their ambient record. Despite complicating logistics, 2020 created an emotional craving for music with this contemplative, therapeutic quality. Inspired by both memories of the past and the needs of the present, Refuge is an act of companionship and generosity which gives the listener room to breathe. "We're hoping to create a sense of comfort and coming back to the moment," Devendra says. "It's really important to have a little bit of space between us and our anxieties and impulses. What you do with that space is up to you." - Dorian Lynskey May 2021

From the moment she began writing her new album, Japanese Breakfast's Michelle Zauner knew that she wanted to call it Julibee, After all, a jubilee is a celebration of the passage of time-a festival to usher in the hope of a new era in brilliant technicolor. Zauner's first two albums garnered acclaim for the way they grappled with anguish; Psychopomp was written as her mother underwent cancer treatment, while Soft Sounds From Another Planet took the grief she held from her mother's death and used it as a conduit to explore the cosmos. Now, at the start of a new decade, Japanese Breakfast is ready to fight for happiness, an all-too-scarce resource in our seemingly crumbling world. How does she do it? With a joyful noise. Jubilee bursts with the most wide-ranging arrangements of Zauner's career. Each song unfurls a new aspect of her artistry. In the years leading up to Jubilee, Zauner also took theory lessons and studied piano in earnest for the first time, in an effort to improve her range as a songwriter: "I've never wanted to rest on any laurels. I wanted to push it as far as it could go, inviting more people in and pushing myself as a composer, a producer, an arranger." Jubilee is an album about processing life and love in the quest for happiness, and how that process sometimes requires us to step outside of ourselves. Throughout Jubilee, Zauner is hardly fictionalizing her lyrics, instead pouring her own life into the universe of each song to tell real stories, and allowing those universes, in turn, to fill in the details. Joy, change, evolution-these things take real time, and real effort. And Japanese Breakfast is here for it.

From the moment she began writing her new album, Japanese Breakfast's Michelle Zauner knew that she wanted to call it Julibee, After all, a jubilee is a celebration of the passage of time-a festival to usher in the hope of a new era in brilliant technicolor. Zauner's first two albums garnered acclaim for the way they grappled with anguish; Psychopomp was written as her mother underwent cancer treatment, while Soft Sounds From Another Planet took the grief she held from her mother's death and used it as a conduit to explore the cosmos. Now, at the start of a new decade, Japanese Breakfast is ready to fight for happiness, an all-too-scarce resource in our seemingly crumbling world. How does she do it? With a joyful noise. Jubilee bursts with the most wide-ranging arrangements of Zauner's career. Each song unfurls a new aspect of her artistry. In the years leading up to Jubilee, Zauner also took theory lessons and studied piano in earnest for the first time, in an effort to improve her range as a songwriter: "I've never wanted to rest on any laurels. I wanted to push it as far as it could go, inviting more people in and pushing myself as a composer, a producer, an arranger." Jubilee is an album about processing life and love in the quest for happiness, and how that process sometimes requires us to step outside of ourselves. Throughout Jubilee, Zauner is hardly fictionalizing her lyrics, instead pouring her own life into the universe of each song to tell real stories, and allowing those universes, in turn, to fill in the details. Joy, change, evolution-these things take real time, and real effort. And Japanese Breakfast is here for it.

Copycat Killer is a 12" featuring 4 exclusive new versions of songs from Phoebe Bridgers' wildly acclaimed Punisher album. Collaborating with arranger Rob Moose (Sufjan Stevens, The National, Bon Iver, Vampire Weekend, Jay-Z), these are brand new orchestral arrangements of the songs Kyoto, Savior Complex, Chinese Satellite and Punisher, all given a luscious revamp that is sure to delight any fans of Phoebe's album and serve as perfect gateway for new listeners into what makes her one of the most special artists of 2020 and beyond.

First Ep By New Band Routine That Consists Of Chastity Belt's Annie Truscott And Jay Som's Melina Duterte.When The Covid-19 Pandemic Hit The U.S., Chastity Belt's Annie Truscott Descended Into A State Of Mourning. Her Plan Had Been To Join Her Partner, Jay Som's Melina Duterte, As Violinist On Tour, A Privilege Rarely Afforded Since Both Maintain Busy Road Schedules, And For Truscott, The Prospect Of Spending Most Of The Year In A Van Wasn't Met With Exhaustion So Much As Exhilaration. At Long Last, She'd Be Making A Living Playing Music, No Side Hustle Needed. The Cancellation Of The Tour Represented A Sidelined Dream.Routine Was Born Of This Disappointment. Like The Phoenix Rising From The Ashes, Truscott And Duterte's Collaborative Project Offers A Glimpse Of The Creative Possibilities That Can Emerge From A State Of Defeat. Written And Recorded Over The Course Of A Month In Joshua Tree, Routine's Lush Debut Ep And Other Things Finds The Couple Trying On New Roles. Truscott, Who Plays Bass In Chastity Belt, Wrote The Bulk Of The Material And Sings On The Ep, While Duterte, Normally A Band Leader, Used The Project As An Opportunity To, In Her Words, "Take The Backseat," As Accompanist, Producer, And Engineer. Duterte Describes The Making Of The Ep As "Seamless." In The Mornings, Truscott Sat Outside Of The Cabin In The Not-Yet-Blazing Sun And Worked Out Chord Progressions On Guitar While Duterte Slept In. Staring Out At The Horizon, Truscott Could See A Smattering Of Houses And The Sharp Outline Of A Mountain Range, But Overall The Property Felt Remote, Far Removed From Home In Los Angeles. On Long Walks Truscott Admired The Recently Bloomed Spring Flowers And Pondered The Legacy Of Friendships And Experiences That Made Her. "I Spend A Lot Of My Time Thinking About The People Who've Impacted My Life," She Says. "Routine Gave Me An Opportunity To Explore Those Relationships Through Music." It Was On One Of These Walks That Truscott Began Writing 'Cady Road,' A Contemplative, Country-Tinged Pop...

Shame follow up their wildly acclaimed debut with a James Ford-produced peek into the riddled mind of the band's frontman, Charlie Steen. There are moments on Drunk Tank Pink where you almost have to reach for the sleeve to check this is the same band who made 2018's Songs Of Praise. Such is the jump Shame have made from the riotous post-punk of their debut to the sprawling adventurism and twitching anxieties laid out here. The South Londoner's blood and guts spirit, that wink and grin of devious charm, is still present, it's just that it's grown into something bigger, something deeper, more ambitious and unflinchingly honest. The genius of Drunk Tank Pink is how these lyrical themes dovetail with the music. Opener Alphabet dissects the premise of performance over a siren call of nervous, jerking guitars, its chorus thrown out like a beer bottle across a mosh pit. Songs spin off and lurch into unexpected directions throughout here, be it March Day's escalating aural panic attack or the shapeshifting darkness of Snow Day. There's a Berlin era Bowie beauty to the lovelorn Human For A Minute while closer Station Wagon weaves from a downbeat mooch into a souring, soullifting climax in which Steen elevates himself beyond the clouds and into the heavens. Or at least that's what it sounds like. From the womb to the clouds (sort of), Shame are currently very much in the pink.

Limited to 1000 copies.

Shame follow up their wildly acclaimed debut with a James Ford-produced peek into the riddled mind of the band's frontman, Charlie Steen. There are moments on Drunk Tank Pink where you almost have to reach for the sleeve to check this is the same band who made 2018's Songs Of Praise. Such is the jump Shame have made from the riotous post-punk of their debut to the sprawling adventurism and twitching anxieties laid out here. The South Londoner's blood and guts spirit, that wink and grin of devious charm, is still present, it's just that it's grown into something bigger, something deeper, more ambitious and unflinchingly honest. The genius of Drunk Tank Pink is how these lyrical themes dovetail with the music. Opener Alphabet dissects the premise of performance over a siren call of nervous, jerking guitars, its chorus thrown out like a beer bottle across a mosh pit. Songs spin off and lurch into unexpected directions throughout here, be it March Day's escalating aural panic attack or the shapeshifting darkness of Snow Day. There's a Berlin era Bowie beauty to the lovelorn Human For A Minute while closer Station Wagon weaves from a downbeat mooch into a souring, soullifting climax in which Steen elevates himself beyond the clouds and into the heavens. Or at least that's what it sounds like. From the womb to the clouds (sort of), Shame are currently very much in the pink.

Limited to 4000 copies.

Shame follow up their wildly acclaimed debut with a James Ford-produced peek into the riddled mind of the band's frontman, Charlie Steen. There are moments on Drunk Tank Pink where you almost have to reach for the sleeve to check this is the same band who made 2018's Songs Of Praise. Such is the jump Shame have made from the riotous post-punk of their debut to the sprawling adventurism and twitching anxieties laid out here. The South Londoner's blood and guts spirit, that wink and grin of devious charm, is still present, it's just that it's grown into something bigger, something deeper, more ambitious and unflinchingly honest. The genius of Drunk Tank Pink is how these lyrical themes dovetail with the music. Opener Alphabet dissects the premise of performance over a siren call of nervous, jerking guitars, its chorus thrown out like a beer bottle across a mosh pit. Songs spin off and lurch into unexpected directions throughout here, be it March Day's escalating aural panic attack or the shapeshifting darkness of Snow Day. There's a Berlin era Bowie beauty to the lovelorn Human For A Minute while closer Station Wagon weaves from a downbeat mooch into a souring, soullifting climax in which Steen elevates himself beyond the clouds and into the heavens. Or at least that's what it sounds like. From the womb to the clouds (sort of), Shame are currently very much in the pink.

Shame follow up their wildly acclaimed debut with a James Ford-produced peek into the riddled mind of the band's frontman, Charlie Steen. There are moments on Drunk Tank Pink where you almost have to reach for the sleeve to check this is the same band who made 2018's Songs Of Praise. Such is the jump Shame have made from the riotous post-punk of their debut to the sprawling adventurism and twitching anxieties laid out here. The South Londoner's blood and guts spirit, that wink and grin of devious charm, is still present, it's just that it's grown into something bigger, something deeper, more ambitious and unflinchingly honest. The genius of Drunk Tank Pink is how these lyrical themes dovetail with the music. Opener Alphabet dissects the premise of performance over a siren call of nervous, jerking guitars, its chorus thrown out like a beer bottle across a mosh pit. Songs spin off and lurch into unexpected directions throughout here, be it March Day's escalating aural panic attack or the shapeshifting darkness of Snow Day. There's a Berlin era Bowie beauty to the lovelorn Human For A Minute while closer Station Wagon weaves from a downbeat mooch into a souring, soullifting climax in which Steen elevates himself beyond the clouds and into the heavens. Or at least that's what it sounds like. From the womb to the clouds (sort of), Shame are currently very much in the pink.

On Psychopomp, The Debut Full-Length For Japanese Breakfast, Michelle Zauner Romanticizes Need, Knowing Precisely How Futile It Can Be, As She Howls On The Record's Final Song, To "Cling To Your Sleeves 'Til They're Like Lacerated Sails." Psychopomp Unspools With An Otherworldly Rush - It's Sky-Sized Dream-Pop With Substance, Moving From The Gorgeous Euphoric Rush Of "In Heaven" Through The Pinwheeling "Rugged Country" And "Everybody Wants To Love You," Into The Painful Longing Of "Jane Cum...

Isolation is nothing new for Fenne Lily - in fact, she's Written an album of songs all about it. "It's kind of like writing a letter, and leaving it in a book that you know you'll get out when you're sad - like a message to yourself in the future," she says, referring to Breach, her Dead Oceans debut she wrote during a period of self-enforced isolation pre-COVID. It's an expansive, diaristic, frequently sardonic record that deals with the mess and the catharsis of entering your 20s and finding peace while being alone. "I think this record is proof that I can be emotionally stable, even if right now I feel a little bit up and down," says Fenne. "There's the ability to find clarity in that. It's sobering, weirdly." Fenne was born in London and moved to Dorset as a toddler, where she grew up in the picturesque English countryside. She was a "free range kid," as she calls it, after her parents took her out of school for a period at the age of seven. Over the following year, they taught her while the family travelled Europe in a live-in bus. Even after she returned to traditional school at 9, her home education never ended, extending to music. Her mother gifted Fenne with her old record collection, through which she discovered her love for T-Rex and the Velvet Underground and Nico. Soon after she fell for the strange Genius of PJ Harvey and came to worship Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell, and the richly crafted worlds of Feist, which inspired Fenne to pick up a guitar. It's that journey to find peace inside herself that underpins the whole of Fenne's second album. Its title, Breach, occurred to Fenne after deep conversations with her mum about her birth, during which she was breech, or upside down in the womb. The slippery double-sidedness of the word - which, spelled with an "A", means to "break through" - drew her in. "That feels like what I was doing in this record; I was breaking through a wall that I built for myself, keeping myself safe, and dealing with the downside of feeling lonely and alone. I realized that I am comfortable in myself, and I don't need to fixate on relationships to make myself feel like I have something to talk about. I felt like I broke through a mental barrier in that respect." Even though it also carries implications of awkwardness, rebellion, and breakage, it's a widereaching word, representing new beginnings and birth.

A lone pair of footsteps meanders down a street in Omaha, into the neighborhood bar and then into a near-imperceptible tangle of conversations - about wars, sleepless nights - a surrealist din pushing against the sound of ragtime. Then, as the background quiets, a line rings out clearly: "I think about how much people need - what they need right now is to feel like there's something to look forward to. We have to hold on. We have to hold on." Thus we enter the fitting, cacophonic introduction to Bright Eyes' tenth studio album and first release since 2011. Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was is an enormous record caught in the profound in-between of grief and clarity - one arm wrestling its demons, the other gripping the hand of love, in spite of it. The end of Bright Eyes' unofficial hiatus came naturally. Conor Oberst pitched the idea of getting the band back together during a 2017 Christmas party at Bright Eyes bandmate Nathaniel Walcott's Los Angeles home. The two huddled in the bathroom and called Mike Mogis, who was Christmas shopping at an Omaha mall. Mogis immediately said yes. There was no specific catalyst for the trio, aside from finding comfort amidst a decade of brutal change. Sure, Why now? is the question, but for a project whose friendship is at the core, it was simply Why not? The resulting Bright Eyes album came together unlike any other of its predecessors. Down in the Weeds is Bright Eyes' most collaborative, stemming from only one demo and written in stints in Omaha and in bits and pieces in Walcott's Los Angeles home. Radically altering a writing process 25 years into a project seems daunting, but Oberst said there was no trepidation: "Our history and our friendship, and my trust level with them, is so complete and deep. And I wanted it to feel as much like a three-headed monster as possible." As a title, as a thesis, Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was functions on a global, apocalyptic level of anxiety that looms throughout the record. But on a personal level, it speaks to rooting around in the dirt of one's memories, trying to find the preciousness that's overgrown and unrecognizable. For Oberst, coming back to Bright Eyes was a bit of that. A symbol of simpler times, vaguely nostalgic. And even though it wasn't actually possible to go back to the way things were, even though there wasn't an easy happy ending, there was a new reality left to work with. And here, there is a bleary-eyed hopefulness - earnest, emotive recommitments to love appear on "Dance and Sing" and "Just Once in the World." And throughout, Down in the Weeds features snippets of Oberst's loved ones speaking, in late-night conversations. The fleeting loveliness of intimate moments punctuates the bleakness of the record's existential crisis, crackling like lightning bugs illuminating the long night. Down in the Weeds is a distillation of a prolific, enduring canon. It's immediate and urgent, the product of its creators' growth across a decade apart, as well as the need to make a record together to find solace from loss. Through deliberate, fearless experimentation in process, the trio made the truest Bright Eyes sound: the sound of a deep bond, of a band coming home, but also a seamless continuation, like Bright Eyes never went away. It's the impossible, sprawling mess of human experience that Bright Eyes has always sought to put to tape, since the beginning - the sound of holding on. Why now? Why not?

First pressing on limited edition Transparent Red + Transparent Orange vinyl - 2xLP packaging features die-cut jacket and Side 4 phenakistoscope etching!

A lone pair of footsteps meanders down a street in Omaha, into the neighborhood bar and then into a near-imperceptible tangle of conversations - about wars, sleepless nights - a surrealist din pushing against the sound of ragtime. Then, as the background quiets, a line rings out clearly: "I think about how much people need - what they need right now is to feel like there's something to look forward to. We have to hold on. We have to hold on." Thus we enter the fitting, cacophonic introduction to Bright Eyes' tenth studio album and first release since 2011. Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was is an enormous record caught in the profound in-between of grief and clarity - one arm wrestling its demons, the other gripping the hand of love, in spite of it. The end of Bright Eyes' unofficial hiatus came naturally. Conor Oberst pitched the idea of getting the band back together during a 2017 Christmas party at Bright Eyes bandmate Nathaniel Walcott's Los Angeles home. The two huddled in the bathroom and called Mike Mogis, who was Christmas shopping at an Omaha mall. Mogis immediately said yes. There was no specific catalyst for the trio, aside from finding comfort amidst a decade of brutal change. Sure, Why now? is the question, but for a project whose friendship is at the core, it was simply Why not? The resulting Bright Eyes album came together unlike any other of its predecessors. Down in the Weeds is Bright Eyes' most collaborative, stemming from only one demo and written in stints in Omaha and in bits and pieces in Walcott's Los Angeles home. Radically altering a writing process 25 years into a project seems daunting, but Oberst said there was no trepidation: "Our history and our friendship, and my trust level with them, is so complete and deep. And I wanted it to feel as much like a three-headed monster as possible." As a title, as a thesis, Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was functions on a global, apocalyptic level of anxiety that looms throughout the record. But on a personal level, it speaks to rooting around in the dirt of one's memories, trying to find the preciousness that's overgrown and unrecognizable. For Oberst, coming back to Bright Eyes was a bit of that. A symbol of simpler times, vaguely nostalgic. And even though it wasn't actually possible to go back to the way things were, even though there wasn't an easy happy ending, there was a new reality left to work with. And here, there is a bleary-eyed hopefulness - earnest, emotive recommitments to love appear on "Dance and Sing" and "Just Once in the World." And throughout, Down in the Weeds features snippets of Oberst's loved ones speaking, in late-night conversations. The fleeting loveliness of intimate moments punctuates the bleakness of the record's existential crisis, crackling like lightning bugs illuminating the long night. Down in the Weeds is a distillation of a prolific, enduring canon. It's immediate and urgent, the product of its creators' growth across a decade apart, as well as the need to make a record together to find solace from loss. Through deliberate, fearless experimentation in process, the trio made the truest Bright Eyes sound: the sound of a deep bond, of a band coming home, but also a seamless continuation, like Bright Eyes never went away. It's the impossible, sprawling mess of human experience that Bright Eyes has always sought to put to tape, since the beginning - the sound of holding on. Why now? Why not?

2xLP packaging features die-cut jacket and Side 4 phenakistoscope etching!

A lone pair of footsteps meanders down a street in Omaha, into the neighborhood bar and then into a near-imperceptible tangle of conversations - about wars, sleepless nights - a surrealist din pushing against the sound of ragtime. Then, as the background quiets, a line rings out clearly: "I think about how much people need - what they need right now is to feel like there's something to look forward to. We have to hold on. We have to hold on." Thus we enter the fitting, cacophonic introduction to Bright Eyes' tenth studio album and first release since 2011. Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was is an enormous record caught in the profound in-between of grief and clarity - one arm wrestling its demons, the other gripping the hand of love, in spite of it. The end of Bright Eyes' unofficial hiatus came naturally. Conor Oberst pitched the idea of getting the band back together during a 2017 Christmas party at Bright Eyes bandmate Nathaniel Walcott's Los Angeles home. The two huddled in the bathroom and called Mike Mogis, who was Christmas shopping at an Omaha mall. Mogis immediately said yes. There was no specific catalyst for the trio, aside from finding comfort amidst a decade of brutal change. Sure, Why now? is the question, but for a project whose friendship is at the core, it was simply Why not? The resulting Bright Eyes album came together unlike any other of its predecessors. Down in the Weeds is Bright Eyes' most collaborative, stemming from only one demo and written in stints in Omaha and in bits and pieces in Walcott's Los Angeles home. Radically altering a writing process 25 years into a project seems daunting, but Oberst said there was no trepidation: "Our history and our friendship, and my trust level with them, is so complete and deep. And I wanted it to feel as much like a three-headed monster as possible." As a title, as a thesis, Down in the Weeds, Where the World Once Was functions on a global, apocalyptic level of anxiety that looms throughout the record. But on a personal level, it speaks to rooting around in the dirt of one's memories, trying to find the preciousness that's overgrown and unrecognizable. For Oberst, coming back to Bright Eyes was a bit of that. A symbol of simpler times, vaguely nostalgic. And even though it wasn't actually possible to go back to the way things were, even though there wasn't an easy happy ending, there was a new reality left to work with. And here, there is a bleary-eyed hopefulness - earnest, emotive recommitments to love appear on "Dance and Sing" and "Just Once in the World." And throughout, Down in the Weeds features snippets of Oberst's loved ones speaking, in late-night conversations. The fleeting loveliness of intimate moments punctuates the bleakness of the record's existential crisis, crackling like lightning bugs illuminating the long night. Down in the Weeds is a distillation of a prolific, enduring canon. It's immediate and urgent, the product of its creators' growth across a decade apart, as well as the need to make a record together to find solace from loss. Through deliberate, fearless experimentation in process, the trio made the truest Bright Eyes sound: the sound of a deep bond, of a band coming home, but also a seamless continuation, like Bright Eyes never went away. It's the impossible, sprawling mess of human experience that Bright Eyes has always sought to put to tape, since the beginning - the sound of holding on. Why now? Why not?