Dead Oceans Vinyl, CD & Tape 156 Items

In a long and emotionally exhausting year of being inside (alone, in my case,) I have found myself thinking about mirrors. How to avoid spending too much time in them, most days. Taking inventory of the real, physical self is difficult work, work that I'm not entirely opposed to but work that became immediately more treacherous for me when I had to witness the very real toll that time, modern anxieties, isolation, and boredom were taking on me. It was easier, it seemed, to spiral into a not-so-distant glorious past, to use memory as a tool of both excitement and healing. But, speaking of excitement, I like to stumble towards a band with no agenda, no purpose, uncovering sound almost on accident. This is how I first heard Wednesday. The band came to me and I don't remember how, or why. They simply arrived, as if we'd been traveling toward each other our whole lives. I Was Trying To Describe You To Someone soaked into my summer of 2020, and in sound, in spirit, in central concerns and the execution of them, it took me back to an era before the current era, which I'd needed at the time. The past can feel less hellish than the present if we are, sometimes, not fully honest with ourselves. There is the trick of nostalgia that I spend a lot of time playing with in my own writing, and somewhat tormented by in my own living. The very real idea that nostalgia is both a useful tool and also a weapon if it isn't paired with something that approaches a type of rigorous honesty. But if I may go back to all of these ideas of nostalgia and our old, tricky, past selves that are, indeed, a part of the house of bricks that make up our present self, what I also hope you, listener, might adore about this album is the exact moment at the start of "The Burned Down Dairy Queen" when Karly sings I was hiding in a room in my mind / and I made me take a look at myself. Because if you, like me, have been avoiding mirrors - both metaphorical and real - this is where the album becomes a lighthouse, echoing bright across the darkness of my otherwise dark and empty chambers. So much of these songs meditate on the past in far less romantic ways than I have found myself meditating on the past, and I was desperate for the recalibration that this album provided. So, yes, the songs are good. You will maybe roll down your windows on a comfortable day on the right stretch of road in a warm season and turn the volume up when "Birthday Song" gets good and loud and singalong- able. You might sit atop a rooftop at night, closer to the moon than you were on the ground, and let "Ghost Of A Dog" churn and rattle you to some nighttime realization that you couldn't have had in silence. But, even on top of all of this, on top of all the pleasures and the mercies that the sounds on this album might afford. I hope and think, too, that it will remind anyone who listens that we are a collection of many reflections. All of them deserving patience. _Hanif Abdurraqib

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 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.

I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone is Wednesday's second fulllength album & first as a full band. The Asheville, NC quintet (guitarist/ vocalist Karly Hartzman, lead guitarist Daniel Gorham, pedal steel guitarist Xandy Chelmis, bassist Margo Schultz & drummer Alan Miller) maximizes the dark dissonance of a three guitar attack to highlight the emotionality of Hartzman's bell-clear vocals & wisps of half-recalled memories & literary references that make up her lyrics. I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone's eight songs meld elements of shoegaze, grunge, indie pop & southern American culture into a uniquely personal style of modern rock music that resonates with power & tenderness. The ever-darkening & deepening of Wednesdays' sound on I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone owes a debt of influence to The Swirlies, Arthur Russell, Red House Painters, Tenniscoats, Ana Roxanne, Acetone, & their continued collaboration with MJ Lenderman (who lends backing vocals to the songs "Billboard" & "November"). I Was Trying to Describe You to Someone was recorded at Hartzman's home with engineering assistance from her roommate Colin Miller. The depth & clarity of the recordings balance the distorted volume of Wednesday's live performances with the intimacy of Hartzman's voice. Her words hold the center of the chaos, unobscured by the power of the band. Hartzman describes her lyrics as "attempts to access old personal memories & do them justice through prose, with inspiration from the writings of Richard Brautigan, Flannery O'Connor, David Berman & Tom Robbins, & movies like Steel Magnolias."

Ali Farka Touré trekked the world, bringing his beloved Malian music to the masses. Dubbed "the African John Lee Hooker," one could hear strong connections between the two; both employed a bluesy style of play with gritty textures that elicit calm and fury in equal measure. While the influence of Black blues music prevailed, Touré created a West African blend of 'desert blues' that garnered Grammy Awards and widespread reverence. Though he transcended in 2006, Ali's musical legacy lives on through his son, Vieux aka "the Hendrix of the Sahara," an accomplished guitarist and champion of Malian music in his own right. On Ali, his collaborative album with Khruangbin, Vieux pays homage to his father by recreating some of his most resonant work, putting new twists on it while maintaining the original's integrity. The result is a rightful ode to a legend. Ali isn't just a greatest hits compilation. It's a lullaby, a remembrance of Ali's life through known highlights and B-sides from his catalog. It is a testament to what happens when creativity is approached through open arms and open hearts. "To me, music is magic, it is spontaneous, it is the energy between people," Vieux says. "I think Khruangbin understands this very well." The genesis of the album dates back to 2019, when Khruangbin, coming off their breakthrough album Con Todo El Mundo, was beginning to play to bigger crowds. The record was finished in 2021, as a global pandemic shuttered businesses and forced us to take stock of what Earth was becoming. Indirectly, Ali captures this as a moment of peace within a raging storm, a conversation between past and present without allegiance to suffering. Now, given Khruangbin's reach as a unit with legions of fans (including the likes of Jay-Z and Paul McCartney), they're poised to bring Malian music to broader groups of listeners.

Ali Farka Touré trekked the world, bringing his beloved Malian music to the masses. Dubbed "the African John Lee Hooker," one could hear strong connections between the two; both employed a bluesy style of play with gritty textures that elicit calm and fury in equal measure. While the influence of Black blues music prevailed, Touré created a West African blend of 'desert blues' that garnered Grammy Awards and widespread reverence. Though he transcended in 2006, Ali's musical legacy lives on through his son, Vieux aka "the Hendrix of the Sahara," an accomplished guitarist and champion of Malian music in his own right. On Ali, his collaborative album with Khruangbin, Vieux pays homage to his father by recreating some of his most resonant work, putting new twists on it while maintaining the original's integrity. The result is a rightful ode to a legend.Ali isn't just a greatest hits compilation. It's a lullaby, a remembrance of Ali's life through known highlights and B-sides from his catalog. It is a testament to what happens when creativity is approached through open arms and open hearts. "To me, music is magic, it is spontaneous, it is the energy between people," Vieux says. "I think Khruangbin understands this very well." The genesis of the album dates back to 2019, when Khruangbin, coming off their breakthrough album Con Todo El Mundo, was beginning to play to bigger crowds. The record was finished in 2021, as a global pandemic shuttered businesses and forced us to take stock of what Earth was becoming. Indirectly, Ali captures this as a moment of peace within a raging storm, a conversation between past and present without allegiance to suffering. Now, given Khruangbin's reach as a unit with legions of fans (including the likes of Jay-Z and Paul McCartney), they're poised to bring Malian music to broader groups of listeners.

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.

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.

LP version comes with download of the album."There's No Leaving Now", the newest record from Kristian Matsson's aptly titled moniker, The Tallest Man On Earth, finds the Swedish troubadour trading in the sense of urgency that fueled his first two records for a confidently relaxed approach. The results are paralyzing. Drums, piano, baritone guitar, woodwinds and pedal steel layer this collection of songs that never compromise virtuosity for immediacy. The songwriting is every bit as detailed and captivating as his previous work, but this time around, Matsson is showing a few more cards. The music of the Tallest Man on Earth has traditionally centered around the power of performance and has served as a reminder that directness is the best course of action. However,...

The Tallest Man on Earth released one of 2008's most powerful records, one that Pitchfork praised, calling Kristian Matsson "a natural-born folksinger, earnest, clever, and comforting." Shallow Grave could not have been more simple, just Matsson's commanding vocals with an acoustic guitar or banjo, recorded at his home in Dalarna, Sweden. Although the album was released on the Swedish label Gravitation without the help of widespread distribution, the story of The Tallest Man on Earth spread far and wide through word of mouth. In April 2010 The Tallest Man on Earth released the critically acclaimed album The Wild Hunt and has played dozens of sold-out shows on both sides of the Atlantic. Now, Gravitation is pleased to make Shallow Grave widely available on vinyl for the first time.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The title sounds pastoral & quaint, but the titular green has dark hallucinogenic qualities, as does much of the LP. The band is a mixture of new & old Chicago talent, blending both jaded veterans of the post-rock & jazz mini-circuits together with a few eager, open-eared youths.