Dead Oceans Rock & Indie 133 Items

Food for Worms, their explosive third record, sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, as reflected in the cover art designed by acclaimed artist Marcel Dzama. It's suggestive of what is left unsaid, what lies beneath the surface, the farcical and fantastical everyday that we are living in, in a society where both everything and nothing is possible. On the one hand, new album Food for Worms calls to mind a certain morbidity, but on the other, it's a celebration of life; the way that, in the end, we need each other. The album is an ode to friendship, and a documentation of the dynamic that only five people who have grown up together - and grown so close, against all odds - can share. For the first time, the band are not delving inwards, but seeking to capture the world around them. Now they arrive, finally, at a place of hard-won maturity. Enter: Food for Worms, which singer Charlie Steen declares to be "the Lamborghini of shame records." The album crashed into life faster than anything they'd created before. The band recorded it while playing festivals all over Europe. That live energy, what it's like to witness shame in their element, is captured perfectly on record - like lightning in a bottle. The album marks a sonic departure: shame have abandoned their post-punk beginnings for far more eclectic influences, drawing from the sharp yet uncomplicated lyrical observations of Lou Reed and the more melodic works of 90s German band, Blumfeld. They called upon renowned producer Flood (Nick Cave, U2, PJ Harvey, Foals) to execute their vision. Recording each track live meant a kind of surrender: here, the rough edges give the album its texture; the mistakes are more interesting than perfection. In a way, it harks back to the title itself and the way that with this record, the band are embracing frailty and by doing so, are tapping into a new source of bravery.

Food for Worms, their explosive third record, sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, as reflected in the cover art designed by acclaimed artist Marcel Dzama. It's suggestive of what is left unsaid, what lies beneath the surface, the farcical and fantastical everyday that we are living in, in a society where both everything and nothing is possible. On the one hand, new album Food for Worms calls to mind a certain morbidity, but on the other, it's a celebration of life; the way that, in the end, we need each other. The album is an ode to friendship, and a documentation of the dynamic that only five people who have grown up together - and grown so close, against all odds - can share. For the first time, the band are not delving inwards, but seeking to capture the world around them. Now they arrive, finally, at a place of hard-won maturity. Enter: Food for Worms, which singer Charlie Steen declares to be "the Lamborghini of shame records." The album crashed into life faster than anything they'd created before. The band recorded it while playing festivals all over Europe. That live energy, what it's like to witness shame in their element, is captured perfectly on record - like lightning in a bottle. The album marks a sonic departure: shame have abandoned their post-punk beginnings for far more eclectic influences, drawing from the sharp yet uncomplicated lyrical observations of Lou Reed and the more melodic works of 90s German band, Blumfeld. They called upon renowned producer Flood (Nick Cave, U2, PJ Harvey, Foals) to execute their vision. Recording each track live meant a kind of surrender: here, the rough edges give the album its texture; the mistakes are more interesting than perfection. In a way, it harks back to the title itself and the way that with this record, the band are embracing frailty and by doing so, are tapping into a new source of bravery.

Food for Worms, their explosive third record, sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, as reflected in the cover art designed by acclaimed artist Marcel Dzama. It's suggestive of what is left unsaid, what lies beneath the surface, the farcical and fantastical everyday that we are living in, in a society where both everything and nothing is possible. On the one hand, new album Food for Worms calls to mind a certain morbidity, but on the other, it's a celebration of life; the way that, in the end, we need each other. The album is an ode to friendship, and a documentation of the dynamic that only five people who have grown up together - and grown so close, against all odds - can share. For the first time, the band are not delving inwards, but seeking to capture the world around them. Now they arrive, finally, at a place of hard-won maturity. Enter: Food for Worms, which singer Charlie Steen declares to be "the Lamborghini of shame records." The album crashed into life faster than anything they'd created before. The band recorded it while playing festivals all over Europe. That live energy, what it's like to witness shame in their element, is captured perfectly on record - like lightning in a bottle. The album marks a sonic departure: shame have abandoned their post-punk beginnings for far more eclectic influences, drawing from the sharp yet uncomplicated lyrical observations of Lou Reed and the more melodic works of 90s German band, Blumfeld. They called upon renowned producer Flood (Nick Cave, U2, PJ Harvey, Foals) to execute their vision. Recording each track live meant a kind of surrender: here, the rough edges give the album its texture; the mistakes are more interesting than perfection. In a way, it harks back to the title itself and the way that with this record, the band are embracing frailty and by doing so, are tapping into a new source of bravery.

Food for Worms, their explosive third record, sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, as reflected in the cover art designed by acclaimed artist Marcel Dzama. It's suggestive of what is left unsaid, what lies beneath the surface, the farcical and fantastical everyday that we are living in, in a society where both everything and nothing is possible. On the one hand, new album Food for Worms calls to mind a certain morbidity, but on the other, it's a celebration of life; the way that, in the end, we need each other. The album is an ode to friendship, and a documentation of the dynamic that only five people who have grown up together - and grown so close, against all odds - can share. For the first time, the band are not delving inwards, but seeking to capture the world around them. Now they arrive, finally, at a place of hard-won maturity. Enter: Food for Worms, which singer Charlie Steen declares to be "the Lamborghini of shame records." The album crashed into life faster than anything they'd created before. The band recorded it while playing festivals all over Europe. That live energy, what it's like to witness shame in their element, is captured perfectly on record - like lightning in a bottle. The album marks a sonic departure: shame have abandoned their post-punk beginnings for far more eclectic influences, drawing from the sharp yet uncomplicated lyrical observations of Lou Reed and the more melodic works of 90s German band, Blumfeld. They called upon renowned producer Flood (Nick Cave, U2, PJ Harvey, Foals) to execute their vision. Recording each track live meant a kind of surrender: here, the rough edges give the album its texture; the mistakes are more interesting than perfection. In a way, it harks back to the title itself and the way that with this record, the band are embracing frailty and by doing so, are tapping into a new source of bravery.

Food for Worms, their explosive third record, sees shame enter a new, surreal landscape, as reflected in the cover art designed by acclaimed artist Marcel Dzama. It's suggestive of what is left unsaid, what lies beneath the surface, the farcical and fantastical everyday that we are living in, in a society where both everything and nothing is possible. On the one hand, new album Food for Worms calls to mind a certain morbidity, but on the other, it's a celebration of life; the way that, in the end, we need each other. The album is an ode to friendship, and a documentation of the dynamic that only five people who have grown up together - and grown so close, against all odds - can share. For the first time, the band are not delving inwards, but seeking to capture the world around them. Now they arrive, finally, at a place of hard-won maturity. Enter: Food for Worms, which singer Charlie Steen declares to be "the Lamborghini of shame records." The album crashed into life faster than anything they'd created before. The band recorded it while playing festivals all over Europe. That live energy, what it's like to witness shame in their element, is captured perfectly on record - like lightning in a bottle. The album marks a sonic departure: shame have abandoned their post-punk beginnings for far more eclectic influences, drawing from the sharp yet uncomplicated lyrical observations of Lou Reed and the more melodic works of 90s German band, Blumfeld. They called upon renowned producer Flood (Nick Cave, U2, PJ Harvey, Foals) to execute their vision. Recording each track live meant a kind of surrender: here, the rough edges give the album its texture; the mistakes are more interesting than perfection. In a way, it harks back to the title itself and the way that with this record, the band are embracing frailty and by doing so, are tapping into a new source of bravery.

A gorgeous and gripping portrait of Fenne's last two years, Big Picture was pieced together in an effort to self-soothe. Tracked live in co-producer Brad Cook's North Carolina studio, the album delineates the phases of love and becomes a map of comfort vs claustrophobia. Though its creation took place amid personal and global turmoil, the ruminative yet candid Big Picture is Fenne's most cohesive, resolute work to date, both lyrically and sonically. "This isn't a sad album _ it's about as uplifting as my way of doing things will allow," she says. "These songs explore worry and doubt and letting go, but those themes are framed brightly." With confidence and quiet strength, each track provides an insight into Fenne's ever-changing view of love and, ultimately, its redefinition _ love as a process, not something to be lost and found. While the album was written alone in Fenne's Bristol flat - a fact intentionally reflected in its compact sonic quality - Big Picture was transformed from a solitary venture into a unifying collaboration during the recording process when she was joined by her touring band, Melina Dutere of Jay Som (mixing), Christian Lee Hutson (guitar and co production), and Katy Kirby (vocals). Notably, these 10 songs are Fenne's first and only to have been written over the course of a relationship; 2018's On Hold and 2020's Breach both confront the pain of retrospection, saying goodbye to a love that's gone. Big Picture does the exact opposite _ rooted firmly in the present, it traces the narrative of two people trying their hardest not to implode, together. "This album is an observation of the way I think about love, the selfexamination that comes with closeness and the responsibilities involved in being a big part of someone else's small(er) world," summarizes Fenne. "It was written in a place of relative emotional stability - stability that felt unstable because of its newness, but also because of the global context. 2020 was the year of letting go, but we'd all already let go of so much and nothing felt like mine anymore. Writing always did, though, so that's what I chose to do."

A gorgeous and gripping portrait of Fenne's last two years, Big Picture was pieced together in an effort to self-soothe. Tracked live in co-producer Brad Cook's North Carolina studio, the album delineates the phases of love and becomes a map of comfort vs claustrophobia. Though its creation took place amid personal and global turmoil, the ruminative yet candid Big Picture is Fenne's most cohesive, resolute work to date, both lyrically and sonically. "This isn't a sad album _ it's about as uplifting as my way of doing things will allow," she says. "These songs explore worry and doubt and letting go, but those themes are framed brightly." With confidence and quiet strength, each track provides an insight into Fenne's ever-changing view of love and, ultimately, its redefinition _ love as a process, not something to be lost and found. While the album was written alone in Fenne's Bristol flat - a fact intentionally reflected in its compact sonic quality - Big Picture was transformed from a solitary venture into a unifying collaboration during the recording process when she was joined by her touring band, Melina Dutere of Jay Som (mixing), Christian Lee Hutson (guitar and co production), and Katy Kirby (vocals). Notably, these 10 songs are Fenne's first and only to have been written over the course of a relationship; 2018's On Hold and 2020's Breach both confront the pain of retrospection, saying goodbye to a love that's gone. Big Picture does the exact opposite _ rooted firmly in the present, it traces the narrative of two people trying their hardest not to implode, together. "This album is an observation of the way I think about love, the selfexamination that comes with closeness and the responsibilities involved in being a big part of someone else's small(er) world," summarizes Fenne. "It was written in a place of relative emotional stability - stability that felt unstable because of its newness, but also because of the global context. 2020 was the year of letting go, but we'd all already let go of so much and nothing felt like mine anymore. Writing always did, though, so that's what I chose to do."

A Wednesday song is a quilt. A short story collection, a half-memory, a patchwork of portraits of the American south, disparate moments that somehow make sense as a whole. Karly Hartzman, the songwriter/ vocalist/guitarist at the helm of the project, is a story collector as much as she is a storyteller: a scholar of people and one-liners. Rat Saw God, the Asheville quintet's new and best record, is ekphrastic but autobiographical and above all, deeply empathetic. Across the album's ten tracks Hartzman, guitarist MJ Lenderman, bassist Margo Shultz, drummer Alan Miller, and lap/pedal steel player Xandy Chelmis build a shrine to minutiae. Half-funny, half-tragic dispatches from North Carolina unfurling somewhere between the wailing skuzz of Nineties shoegaze and classic country twang, that distorted lap steel and Hartzman's voice slicing through the din. Rat Saw God is an album about riding a bike down a suburban stretch in Greensboro while listening to My Bloody Valentine for the first time on an iPod Nano, past a creek that runs through the neighborhood riddled with broken glass bottles and condoms, a front yard filled with broken and rusted car parts, a lonely and dilapidated house reclaimed by kudzu. Four Lokos and rodeo clowns and a kid who burns down a corn field. Roadside monuments, church marquees, poppers and vodka in a plastic water bottle, the shit you get away with at Jewish summer camp, strange sentimental family heirlooms at the thrift stores. The way the South hums alive all night in the summers and into fall, the sound of high school football games, the halo effect from the lights polluting the darkness. It's not really bright enough to see in front of you, but in that stretch of inky void - somehow - you see everything. The songs on Rat Saw God don't recount epics, just the everyday. They're true, they're real life, blurry and chaotic and strange - which is in-line with Hartzman's own ethos: "Everyone's story is worthy," she says, plainly. "Literally every life story is worth writing down, because people are so fascinating." But the thing about Rat Saw God - and about any Wednesday song, really - is you don't necessarily even need all the references to get it, the weirdly specific elation of a song that really hits. Yeah, it's all in the details - how fucked up you got or get, how you break a heart, how you fall in love, how you make yourself and others feel seen - but it's mostly the way those tiny moments add up into a song or album or a person.

A Wednesday song is a quilt. A short story collection, a half-memory, a patchwork of portraits of the American south, disparate moments that somehow make sense as a whole. Karly Hartzman, the songwriter/ vocalist/guitarist at the helm of the project, is a story collector as much as she is a storyteller: a scholar of people and one-liners. Rat Saw God, the Asheville quintet's new and best record, is ekphrastic but autobiographical and above all, deeply empathetic. Across the album's ten tracks Hartzman, guitarist MJ Lenderman, bassist Margo Shultz, drummer Alan Miller, and lap/pedal steel player Xandy Chelmis build a shrine to minutiae. Half-funny, half-tragic dispatches from North Carolina unfurling somewhere between the wailing skuzz of Nineties shoegaze and classic country twang, that distorted lap steel and Hartzman's voice slicing through the din. Rat Saw God is an album about riding a bike down a suburban stretch in Greensboro while listening to My Bloody Valentine for the first time on an iPod Nano, past a creek that runs through the neighborhood riddled with broken glass bottles and condoms, a front yard filled with broken and rusted car parts, a lonely and dilapidated house reclaimed by kudzu. Four Lokos and rodeo clowns and a kid who burns down a corn field. Roadside monuments, church marquees, poppers and vodka in a plastic water bottle, the shit you get away with at Jewish summer camp, strange sentimental family heirlooms at the thrift stores. The way the South hums alive all night in the summers and into fall, the sound of high school football games, the halo effect from the lights polluting the darkness. It's not really bright enough to see in front of you, but in that stretch of inky void - somehow - you see everything. The songs on Rat Saw God don't recount epics, just the everyday. They're true, they're real life, blurry and chaotic and strange - which is in-line with Hartzman's own ethos: "Everyone's story is worthy," she says, plainly. "Literally every life story is worth writing down, because people are so fascinating." But the thing about Rat Saw God - and about any Wednesday song, really - is you don't necessarily even need all the references to get it, the weirdly specific elation of a song that really hits. Yeah, it's all in the details - how fucked up you got or get, how you break a heart, how you fall in love, how you make yourself and others feel seen - but it's mostly the way those tiny moments add up into a song or album or a person.

A gorgeous and gripping portrait of Fenne's last two years, Big Picture was pieced together in an effort to self-soothe. Tracked live in co-producer Brad Cook's North Carolina studio, the album delineates the phases of love and becomes a map of comfort vs claustrophobia. Though its creation took place amid personal and global turmoil, the ruminative yet candid Big Picture is Fenne's most cohesive, resolute work to date, both lyrically and sonically. "This isn't a sad album _ it's about as uplifting as my way of doing things will allow," she says. "These songs explore worry and doubt and letting go, but those themes are framed brightly." With confidence and quiet strength, each track provides an insight into Fenne's ever-changing view of love and, ultimately, its redefinition _ love as a process, not something to be lost and found. While the album was written alone in Fenne's Bristol flat - a fact intentionally reflected in its compact sonic quality - Big Picture was transformed from a solitary venture into a unifying collaboration during the recording process when she was joined by her touring band, Melina Dutere of Jay Som (mixing), Christian Lee Hutson (guitar and co production), and Katy Kirby (vocals). Notably, these 10 songs are Fenne's first and only to have been written over the course of a relationship; 2018's On Hold and 2020's Breach both confront the pain of retrospection, saying goodbye to a love that's gone. Big Picture does the exact opposite _ rooted firmly in the present, it traces the narrative of two people trying their hardest not to implode, together. "This album is an observation of the way I think about love, the selfexamination that comes with closeness and the responsibilities involved in being a big part of someone else's small(er) world," summarizes Fenne. "It was written in a place of relative emotional stability - stability that felt unstable because of its newness, but also because of the global context. 2020 was the year of letting go, but we'd all already let go of so much and nothing felt like mine anymore. Writing always did, though, so that's what I chose to do."

Durand Jones's Wait `Til I Get Over is a memoir and a love letter. It is the story of Jones's life, his growth and revelations, the wisdom of his hometown and the wisdom he could only gain once he left. In it, he writes through Hillaryville's contradictions: the pristine beauty and the ragged roads; his teenage desire to leave and his adult desire to honor his tangled roots; the plantation history and the ups and downs of the Black community that made homes of this reparation town. "Hometowns have a way of keeping a part of you," says Jones, "and if I'm making something young-me would be proud of, Hillaryville is a big part of that." Jones finds something transformative in his memories there and the life he has led since, ultimately claiming and embracing his whole self. The result is vulnerable, personal, touching on Jones's relationship to church life, to his mother, to his queerness, to his worth. "I wish I could tell my younger self `you don't have to stick to the dreams people have for you,'" says Jones, "'you can dream bigger. You are more than capable, you are more than able. I think about some nerdy punk kid in the rural south who needs to hear that now.'" Wait `Til I Get Over does exactly that.

It's only fitting that Khruangbin's first-ever official live releases would be albums paired with their tourmates: artists whose music they love and admire, friends who've become family along the way. Khruangbin's 'Live At' series of live LP straces just one small slice of the band's flight plan through the years: it's a taste of some of their most beloved cities, stages and nights. Most of all, Khruangbin's 'Live at' series ignites both sides of the band's magic: the warm, prismatic feeling of their albums and the bewitching energy of their performances.

A Wednesday song is a quilt. A short story collection, a half-memory, a patchwork of portraits of the American south, disparate moments that somehow make sense as a whole. Karly Hartzman, the songwriter/ vocalist/guitarist at the helm of the project, is a story collector as much as she is a storyteller: a scholar of people and one-liners. Rat Saw God, the Asheville quintet's new and best record, is ekphrastic but autobiographical and above all, deeply empathetic. Across the album's ten tracks Hartzman, guitarist MJ Lenderman, bassist Margo Shultz, drummer Alan Miller, and lap/pedal steel player Xandy Chelmis build a shrine to minutiae. Half-funny, half-tragic dispatches from North Carolina unfurling somewhere between the wailing skuzz of Nineties shoegaze and classic country twang, that distorted lap steel and Hartzman's voice slicing through the din. Rat Saw God is an album about riding a bike down a suburban stretch in Greensboro while listening to My Bloody Valentine for the first time on an iPod Nano, past a creek that runs through the neighborhood riddled with broken glass bottles and condoms, a front yard filled with broken and rusted car parts, a lonely and dilapidated house reclaimed by kudzu. Four Lokos and rodeo clowns and a kid who burns down a corn field. Roadside monuments, church marquees, poppers and vodka in a plastic water bottle, the shit you get away with at Jewish summer camp, strange sentimental family heirlooms at the thrift stores. The way the South hums alive all night in the summers and into fall, the sound of high school football games, the halo effect from the lights polluting the darkness. It's not really bright enough to see in front of you, but in that stretch of inky void - somehow - you see everything. The songs on Rat Saw God don't recount epics, just the everyday. They're true, they're real life, blurry and chaotic and strange - which is in-line with Hartzman's own ethos: "Everyone's story is worthy," she says, plainly. "Literally every life story is worth writing down, because people are so fascinating." But the thing about Rat Saw God - and about any Wednesday song, really - is you don't necessarily even need all the references to get it, the weirdly specific elation of a song that really hits. Yeah, it's all in the details - how fucked up you got or get, how you break a heart, how you fall in love, how you make yourself and others feel seen - but it's mostly the way those tiny moments add up into a song or album or a person.

It's only fitting that Khruangbin's first-ever official live releases would be albums paired with their tourmates: artists whose music they love and admire, friends who've become family along the way. Khruangbin's 'Live At' series of live LP straces just one small slice of the band's flight plan through the years: it's a taste of some of their most beloved cities, stages and nights. Most of all, Khruangbin's 'Live at' series ignites both sides of the band's magic: the warm, prismatic feeling of their albums and the bewitching energy of their performances.

everything is alive, slowdive's 5th record, is exactly what the title suggests: an exploration into the shimmering nature of life and the universal touch points within it. While there are parts of this record that could sit neatly next to the atmospheric quality of 1995's Pygmalion; everything is alive also manages to break down the boundaries of what's come before it. Spanning psychedelic soundscapes, pulsating 80's electronic elements and John Cale inspired journeys, the album lands immediately as something made for 2023 and beyond. For a genre that is often thought of as divisive, and often warrants introspection, here slowdive show their craft as the masters of it by pushing it outwards, beyond the singular; the end result being a record which feels as emotional and cathartic as it is hopeful.

everything is alive, slowdive's 5th record, is exactly what the title suggests: an exploration into the shimmering nature of life and the universal touch points within it. While there are parts of this record that could sit neatly next to the atmospheric quality of 1995's Pygmalion; everything is alive also manages to break down the boundaries of what's come before it. Spanning psychedelic soundscapes, pulsating 80's electronic elements and John Cale inspired journeys, the album lands immediately as something made for 2023 and beyond. For a genre that is often thought of as divisive, and often warrants introspection, here slowdive show their craft as the masters of it by pushing it outwards, beyond the singular; the end result being a record which feels as emotional and cathartic as it is hopeful.

Everything is alive, slowdive's 5th record, is exactly what the title suggests: an exploration into the shimmering nature of life and the universal touchpoints within it. While there are parts of this record that could sit neatly next to the atmospheric quality of 1995's Pygmalion; everything is alive also manages to break down the boundaries of what's come before it. Spanning psychedelic soundscapes, pulsating 80s electronic elements and John Cale inspired journeys, the album lands immediately as something made for 2023 and beyond. For a genre that is often thought of as divisive, and often warrants introspection, here slowdive show their craft as the masters of it by pushing it outwards, beyond the singular; the end result being a record which feels as emotional and cathartic as it is hopeful.

Sometimes, Mitski says, it feels like life would be easier without hope, or a soul, or love. But when she closes her eyes and thinks about what's truly hers, what can't be repossessed or demolished, she sees love. "The best thing I ever did in my life was to love people," Mitski says. "I wish I could leave behind all the love I have, after I die, so that I can shine all this goodness, all this good love that I've created onto other people." She hopes her newest album, The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We, will continue to shine that love long after she's gone. Listening to it, that's precisely how it feels: like a love that's haunting the land. "This is my most American album," Mitski says about her seventh record, and the music feels like a profound act of witnessing this country, in all of its private sorrows and painful contradictions. In this album, which is sonically Mitski's most expansive, epic, and wise, the songs seem to be introducing wounds and then actively healing them. Here, love is time- traveling to bless our tender days, like the light from a distant star. The album is full of the ache of the grown- up, seemingly mundane heartbreaks and joys that are often unsung but feel enormous. It's a tiny epic. From the bottom of a glass, to a driveway slushy with memory and snow, to a freight train barreling through the Midwest, and all the way to the moon, it feels like everything, and everyone, is crying out, screaming in pain, arching towards love. Love is that inhospitable land, beckoning us and then rejecting us. To love this place _ this earth, this America, this body _ takes active work. It might be impossible. The best things are.

Sometimes, Mitski says, it feels like life would be easier without hope, or a soul, or love. But when she closes her eyes and thinks about what's truly hers, what can't be repossessed or demolished, she sees love. "The best thing I ever did in my life was to love people," Mitski says. "I wish I could leave behind all the love I have, after I die, so that I can shine all this goodness, all this good love that I've created onto other people." She hopes her newest album, The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We, will continue to shine that love long after she's gone. Listening to it, that's precisely how it feels: like a love that's haunting the land. "This is my most American album," Mitski says about her seventh record, and the music feels like a profound act of witnessing this country, in all of its private sorrows and painful contradictions. In this album, which is sonically Mitski's most expansive, epic, and wise, the songs seem to be introducing wounds and then actively healing them. Here, love is time-traveling to bless our tender days, like the light from a distant star. The album is full of the ache of the grown-up, seemingly mundane heartbreaks and joys that are often unsung but feel enormous. It's a tiny epic. From the bottom of a glass, to a driveway slushy with memory and snow, to a freight train barreling through the Midwest, and all the way to the moon, it feels like everything, and everyone, is crying out, screaming in pain, arching towards love. Love is that inhospitable land, beckoning us and then rejecting us. To love this place _ this earth, this America, this body _ takes active work. It might be impossible. The best things are.

'Live at Stubbs' features performances by Kelly Doyle, Ruben Moreno, The Suffers, Robert Ellis, and Khruangbin

Kevin Morby writes (and records, and imagines) at an almost incomparable clip, and his most recent album, This Is A Photograph, studies life, time and mortality through myriad lenses. It's a dynamic, buoyant record on big, heavy themes, so it only makes sense that Morby found he wasn't quite done with it on its completion. More Photographs (A Continuum) finds new nooks, corners and vantage points. "If This Is A Photograph is a house that you have been living inside of," says Morby, "then More Photographs is, perhaps, the same home just experienced differently. As if you, its inhabitant, have taken a tab of something psychedelic and now, suddenly, you've replaced your eyeglasses with kaleidoscopes." Here, Morby returns to his landmark album's bottomless themes with new wisdom, new imagination, and the winking, looping call backs that tie his full body of work together in uniquely special ways." Everything you once thought was familiar," he continues, "suddenly appears differently, shifting shapes, color and sonic landscapes." "Five Easy Pieces Revisited" captures the same moment from Bobby's point of view; "This Is A Photograph II" takes a similar tact, revisiting its predecessor from a different angle. "Triumph" explores more of the myths and deaths that surround Memphis, TN, this time inspired by Big Star's Chris Bell. And "Kingdom Of Hearts" arrives as an origin story to both This Is A Photograph and its new companion." With every collection of songs," says Morby, "I feel I must cast them out of me before moving onto the next project, and here I knew that what I had begun with This Is A Photograph was not finished. Releasing this collection is my tying a bow on that time and place in my creative life." With a luxurious nine tracks - three re-imaginings and six brand new songs - More Photographs (A Continuum) is prequel, sequel and primer to an already rich and generous record from one of our most luminous modern songwriters.

Kevin Morby writes (and records, and imagines) at an almost incomparable clip, and his most recent album, This Is A Photograph, studies life, time and mortality through myriad lenses. It's a dynamic, buoyant record on big, heavy themes, so it only makes sense that Morby found he wasn't quite done with it on its completion. More Photographs (A Continuum) finds new nooks, corners and vantage points. "If This Is A Photograph is a house that you have been living inside of," says Morby, "then More Photographs is, perhaps, the same home just experienced differently. As if you, its inhabitant, have taken a tab of something psychedelic and now, suddenly, you've replaced your eyeglasses with kaleidoscopes." Here, Morby returns to his landmark album's bottomless themes with new wisdom, new imagination, and the winking, looping call backs that tie his full body of work together in uniquely special ways." Everything you once thought was familiar," he continues, "suddenly appears differently, shifting shapes, color and sonic landscapes." "Five Easy Pieces Revisited" captures the same moment from Bobby's point of view; "This Is A Photograph II" takes a similar tact, revisiting its predecessor from a different angle. "Triumph" explores more of the myths and deaths that surround Memphis, TN, this time inspired by Big Star's Chris Bell. And "Kingdom Of Hearts" arrives as an origin story to both This Is A Photograph and its new companion." With every collection of songs," says Morby, "I feel I must cast them out of me before moving onto the next project, and here I knew that what I had begun with This Is A Photograph was not finished. Releasing this collection is my tying a bow on that time and place in my creative life." With a luxurious nine tracks - three re-imaginings and six brand new songs - More Photographs (A Continuum) is prequel, sequel and primer to an already rich and generous record from one of our most luminous modern songwriters.

"Into The Blue is the clearest portrait of who I am as an artist. It's me through and through," says multi-instrumentalist Aaron Frazer. A daring blend of soul, psychedelia, spaghetti western, disco, gospel and hip-hop, Into the Blue represents the impressive range of Frazer's sonic talents. Frazer maintains the unmistakable falsetto and classic songwriting he's known for, but plants Into the Blue firmly in the now with a hip-hop mentality at its core, weaving together genres and production techniques to form something new. Into The Blue was conceived, like so many classic records, out of actual heartbreak. Frazer moved cross-country from Brooklyn to Los Angeles and embarked on a journey that's reflected in the album's themes of grief, loneliness, and searching for healing. "Into The Blue really means heading into the unknown. That has been the last year of my life and I'm still in the blue," Frazer explains. "But there are also songs here that celebrate love and the giddiness of a new relationship and all that. That's part of a breakup to me, processing the whole thing, remembering the things that were right as much as the things that were wrong." Frazer wrote on every track and played several live instruments on the album. The title track, "Into The Blue", is a haunting, resolute anthem, combining cinematic strings and tough-as-nails breakbeats as Frazer heads west. "Here I go, to a place where the broken heart knows," he sings. "It's all I can do. Back into the blue." "Payback" is an explosive dancefloor heater, featuring shimmering tambourines and driving bass lines. Northern soul drums meet snarling fuzz guitar, hurdling towards its epic conclusion. The album features moments of towering arrangements, recalling David Axelrod and Ennio Merricone, balanced by rawness, incorporating iPhone recordings and one-take vocals. For Into the Blue, Frazer enlisted Grammy-winner Alex Goose as coproducer, known for his crate-digging samples and collaborations with hip-hop artists like Freddie Gibbs, Madlib and Brockhampton. Frazer also experimented with samples for the first time on a record, drawing from unexpected sources like 90s R&B group Hi-Five. Though Into the Blue is born out of heartbreak, Frazer hopes it leaves listeners with a sense of optimism. "You know, you can still laugh on a day when you're grieving," he says, "there's no peaks without valleys," he says, but Into The Blue sees Aaron Frazer at new heights.

Cassandra Jenkins is quite simply one of the best songwriter-storytellerscurrently making music. Hers is a specific and singular corner of the Great AmericanSongwriters, artists like David Berman, Adrianne Lenker, Jeff Tweedy and Sufjan Stevens.They're artists connected by a sense of immediacy, not just in the writing - which is precise,evocative, brutal at times, pitch-back funny right when you need it - but by their delivery, bythe way they sing with an immersive, total belief that carries you through their songs. Theseare the artists and songs that sneak up and really live with us forever, and on My Light, MyDestroyer, Jenkins joins their ranks.What's most remarkable about My Light, My Destroyer is it captures anartist at an exciting leap in her evolution. So much about the album feels of-a-kind with itspredecessors; field recordings and found sound permeate, narrative songwriting crashesinto heady, swirling compositions. Jenkins sings with what can only be described as a powerwhisper(think Sufjan Stevens, Annie Lennox, Margo Timmins or YHF-era Tweedy), hervocals up close and intimate but subtly confrontational. But it all feels bigger here, morefinely honed, bolder and richer than her previous work and than her peers.Born and raised in New York City, Jenkins has been touring and performingsince she was a child, self-releasing her early recordings before releasing breakthrough AnOverview on Phenomenal Nature in 2021. On My Light, My Destroyer, many of the songs aredevoted to specific feelings, and to really getting inside those feelings as opposed to gettinginside a narrative arc. Lead single "Only one" is one example, as Jenkins's asserts that amoment, or a song, can be wholly myopic; it can embody a singular feeling, and provides noanswers.Songs like Devotion, Delphinium Blue, Clams Casino, Echo, and Only One,speak to the liberating quality of focused observation, even to the point of disillusionment."There's this idea about disillusionment that I've held on...

Cassandra Jenkins is quite simply one of the best songwriter-storytellerscurrently making music. Hers is a specific and singular corner of the Great AmericanSongwriters, artists like David Berman, Adrianne Lenker, Jeff Tweedy and Sufjan Stevens.They're artists connected by a sense of immediacy, not just in the writing - which is precise,evocative, brutal at times, pitch-back funny right when you need it - but by their delivery, bythe way they sing with an immersive, total belief that carries you through their songs. Theseare the artists and songs that sneak up and really live with us forever, and on My Light, MyDestroyer, Jenkins joins their ranks.What's most remarkable about My Light, My Destroyer is it captures anartist at an exciting leap in her evolution. So much about the album feels of-a-kind with itspredecessors; field recordings and found sound permeate, narrative songwriting crashesinto heady, swirling compositions. Jenkins sings with what can only be described as a powerwhisper(think Sufjan Stevens, Annie Lennox, Margo Timmins or YHF-era Tweedy), hervocals up close and intimate but subtly confrontational. But it all feels bigger here, morefinely honed, bolder and richer than her previous work and than her peers.Born and raised in New York City, Jenkins has been touring and performingsince she was a child, self-releasing her early recordings before releasing breakthrough AnOverview on Phenomenal Nature in 2021. On My Light, My Destroyer, many of the songs aredevoted to specific feelings, and to really getting inside those feelings as opposed to gettinginside a narrative arc. Lead single "Only one" is one example, as Jenkins's asserts that amoment, or a song, can be wholly myopic; it can embody a singular feeling, and provides noanswers.Songs like Devotion, Delphinium Blue, Clams Casino, Echo, and Only One,speak to the liberating quality of focused observation, even to the point of disillusionment."There's this idea about disillusionment that I've held on...

Hole Erth, Chaz Bear's eighth full-length studio record as Toro y Moi, is the genre shapeshifter's most unexpected and bold move to date, with Bear diving headlong into rap-rock, Soundcloud rap and Y2K emo. The album blitzes anthemic pop-punk next to autotuned, melancholic rap - two genres that inform one another now more than ever before _ and packs in the most features ever on a Toro y Moi album. A sense of nostalgia sneaks its way into almost every Toro y Moi release, but angst is an emotion that Bear has never intentionally explored the way he does here. Tracks like "Tuesday'' channel a specific, yet forever-relatable sense of adolescent unease. A distorted guitar riff leads into a repeating chorus that conjures misunderstood teenagers singing aloud, maybe too loud, while riding bikes through American suburbs. This foreboding can also be heard on "HOV," though not without poking some fun with lines like "Romance is so cold / My advice? To bring a coat." Bear has the energy, but is acutely aware that his energy isn't forever. At a time when the internet is blending multiple genres into one at an increasingly rapid pace, Bear accomplishes the rare feat of keeping up with the contemporary alternative listener. Constantly changing, evolving and experimenting is the heart of Toro y Moi, and on Hole Erth Bear challenges but also reclaims himself, embracing the myriad sounds and eras that formed him, while crashing new worlds together.

Hole Erth, Chaz Bear's eighth full-length studio record as Toro y Moi, is the genre shapeshifter's most unexpected and bold move to date, with Bear diving headlong into rap-rock, Soundcloud rap and Y2K emo. The album blitzes anthemic pop-punk next to autotuned, melancholic rap - two genres that inform one another now more than ever before _ and packs in the most features ever on a Toro y Moi album. A sense of nostalgia sneaks its way into almost every Toro y Moi release, but angst is an emotion that Bear has never intentionally explored the way he does here. Tracks like "Tuesday'' channel a specific, yet forever-relatable sense of adolescent unease. A distorted guitar riff leads into a repeating chorus that conjures misunderstood teenagers singing aloud, maybe too loud, while riding bikes through American suburbs. This foreboding can also be heard on "HOV," though not without poking some fun with lines like "Romance is so cold / My advice? To bring a coat." Bear has the energy, but is acutely aware that his energy isn't forever. At a time when the internet is blending multiple genres into one at an increasingly rapid pace, Bear accomplishes the rare feat of keeping up with the contemporary alternative listener. Constantly changing, evolving and experimenting is the heart of Toro y Moi, and on Hole Erth Bear challenges but also reclaims himself, embracing the myriad sounds and eras that formed him, while crashing new worlds together.

Hole Erth, Chaz Bear's eighth full-length studio record as Toro y Moi, is the genre shapeshifter's most unexpected and bold move to date, with Bear diving headlong into rap-rock, Soundcloud rap and Y2K emo. The album blitzes anthemic pop-punk next to autotuned, melancholic rap - two genres that inform one another now more than ever before _ and packs in the most features ever on a Toro y Moi album. A sense of nostalgia sneaks its way into almost every Toro y Moi release, but angst is an emotion that Bear has never intentionally explored the way he does here. Tracks like "Tuesday'' channel a specific, yet forever-relatable sense of adolescent unease. A distorted guitar riff leads into a repeating chorus that conjures misunderstood teenagers singing aloud, maybe too loud, while riding bikes through American suburbs. This foreboding can also be heard on "HOV," though not without poking some fun with lines like "Romance is so cold / My advice? To bring a coat." Bear has the energy, but is acutely aware that his energy isn't forever. At a time when the internet is blending multiple genres into one at an increasingly rapid pace, Bear accomplishes the rare feat of keeping up with the contemporary alternative listener. Constantly changing, evolving and experimenting is the heart of Toro y Moi, and on Hole Erth Bear challenges but also reclaims himself, embracing the myriad sounds and eras that formed him, while crashing new worlds together.

Hole Erth, Chaz Bear's eighth full-length studio record as Toro y Moi, is the genre shapeshifter's most unexpected and bold move to date, with Bear diving headlong into rap-rock, Soundcloud rap and Y2K emo. The album blitzes anthemic pop-punk next to autotuned, melancholic rap - two genres that inform one another now more than ever before _ and packs in the most features ever on a Toro y Moi album. A sense of nostalgia sneaks its way into almost every Toro y Moi release, but angst is an emotion that Bear has never intentionally explored the way he does here. Tracks like "Tuesday'' channel a specific, yet forever-relatable sense of adolescent unease. A distorted guitar riff leads into a repeating chorus that conjures misunderstood teenagers singing aloud, maybe too loud, while riding bikes through American suburbs. This foreboding can also be heard on "HOV," though not without poking some fun with lines like "Romance is so cold / My advice? To bring a coat." Bear has the energy, but is acutely aware that his energy isn't forever. At a time when the internet is blending multiple genres into one at an increasingly rapid pace, Bear accomplishes the rare feat of keeping up with the contemporary alternative listener. Constantly changing, evolving and experimenting is the heart of Toro y Moi, and on Hole Erth Bear challenges but also reclaims himself, embracing the myriad sounds and eras that formed him, while crashing new worlds together.