Dead Oceans Vinyl, CD & Tape 156 Items

CD includes Sugarshack Sessions.

Private Space, the group's third album, is a previously untapped vibe at the heart of The Indications. Pushing beyond the boundaries of the funk and soul on their previous releases, Private Space unlocks the door to a wider range of sounds and launches boldly into a world of synthy modern soul and disco beats dotted with strings. It's an organic, timeless record that's as fresh as clean kicks and familiar as your favorite well-worn LP. Developed after being apart for much of the year, Private Space is creatively explosive and delights in upending expectations. Its 10 tracks are both an escapist fantasy and a much-needed recentering after a tumultuous 2020. Throughout, The Indications highlight a collective resiliency - as well as the power of a good song to be a light in the darkness. Durand Jones and The Indications have long provided the soulful soundtrack for such deep thoughts, both on stage and on your turntable. But as the world slowly resets from the chaos of the past year, Durand Jones and The Indications' Private Space is arriving at just the right time.

Private Space, the group's third album, is a previously untapped vibe at the heart of The Indications. Pushing beyond the boundaries of the funk and soul on their previous releases, Private Space unlocks the door to a wider range of sounds and launches boldly into a world of synthy modern soul and disco beats dotted with strings. It's an organic, timeless record that's as fresh as clean kicks and familiar as your favorite well-worn LP. Developed after being apart for much of the year, Private Space is creatively explosive and delights in upending expectations. Its 10 tracks are both an escapist fantasy and a much-needed recentering after a tumultuous 2020. Throughout, The Indications highlight a collective resiliency - as well as the power of a good song to be a light in the darkness. Durand Jones and The Indications have long provided the soulful soundtrack for such deep thoughts, both on stage and on your turntable. But as the world slowly resets from the chaos of the past year, Durand Jones and The Indications' Private Space is arriving at just the right time.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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?

This is Kevin's opus, a concept album on spirituality and religion. Throughout his four solo albums and myriad records of various collaboration, Kevin Morby has recognized in his work the ubiquity of an apparent religious theme. Though not identifying as "religious" in the slightest, Morby - the globetrotting son of Kansas City who has made music while living on both coasts before recently returning to his Midwestern stomping grounds - recognizes in himself a somewhat spiritual being with a secular attitude towards the soulful. And so, in an effort to tackle that notion head-on and once-and-for-all, he sat down in his form of church - on planes and in beds - and wrote what would become his first true concept-album: the lavish, resplendent, career-best double LP Oh My God. This one feels full circle, my most realized record yet," he says.

In the fall of 2012, Jones left his small-town in Louisiana for the foothills of Indiana. Alto saxophone in tow he enrolled in the Jacobs School of Music at Indiana University. “Being a singer was never part of the plan,” Jones admits. But soon enough he found his way in front of a rowdy rock-n-roll band belting out a rambunctious rendition of “Dock Of The Bay,” to a basement full of drunken undergrads. That rowdy band unfolded into The Indications—comprised of Aaron Frazer (drums), Blake Rhein (guitar), Kyle Houpt (bass) and Justin Hubler (organ).

Inspired by a handful of dusty and obscure 45s bearing names like The Ethics, Brothers of Soul and The Icemen, The Indications set out to make a record steeped in heavy drums, blown-out vocals, and deep grooves. Gathered around a Tascam 4-track cassette recorder and a case of Miller High-Life, the group spent their Sunday evenings recording into the early hours of the morning.

With comparisons from Charles Bradley and Lee Fields to Al Green, the only thing that separates this band from those greats is their youth. Having now taken their raucous live show all across the US, the band have galvanized a following that are ready to take them to the next level.

“It felt like we were in a movie that had a totally implausible ending ...”, so they had to return to keep this movie running.

A both beautiful & brutal romantic hinterland, in which on of America's new voices hits a brave new stride

An eclectic, yet cohesive & remarkably assured nine-track tapestry, united by one of the most versitile & evocative voices you'll ever hear. Pressed to limited tan color vinyl.