Who runs the label?
Brian: Jeremy Peters is the wise old sage with the most experience around here, he’s been doing this a lot longer then the rest of us.
Jeremy: Justin Spindler is a real ideas man, he usually lays the path we follow.
Justin: Brian Peters takes care of the day to day, and really is the hands-on man when it comes to Qui-Sci. That and he technically owns the business I guess.

Where is the label located? Describe your digs…
Brian: We work out of Jeremy’s and my house on Main Street in Ann Arbor. It’s your typical, somewhat worn down, Ann Arbor house, but with location, location, location. There is a dedicated office, with two computers, boxes stacked five high in the corners and paper everywhere, but work tends to spew out all over the house. The main floor has album boxes, bubble mailers, and computers taking up most of the living space.
Justin: The office always seems to have an ironing board set up as though it were going to be used, though I never see anything ironed. I think I left my cell phone charger in the outlet behind it. That fucking ironing board is the reason I only have one bar of battery life.
Brian: I have great plans for that ironing board… you’ll see.

How did the label get its start? It’s name?
Justin: The label was started by Brian when he decided to make up a fake label on the Internet
Brian: Just a MySpace to showcase all the recording I’d been doing at the time. I’d only thought of putting out a comp of some sort at that point.
Justin: Then mostly because I’m gullible, I asked if he’d put my record out on the imprint. Instead of putting my record out, I gave him money and became a 50% partner in the label. Later, we repeated this process with Brian’s brother Jeremy, though he has never asked us to put out a record of his own making. The label probably “officially” got it’s start when we approached Canada , the band, not the country, though we were driving east, and asked about putting their record out as the first full-scale release on Quite Scientific Records.
Brian: Wow, it sounds so unromantic. I would have said, an ectoplasmic burst started it all. The name - more ‘unromanticalness’ - was really just two words I thought sounded good together. The clincher was when we discovered it could be shortened to the unbelievably hip Qui-Sci.

How many releases do you issue a year, on average?
Justin: Three-ish? 2008 may be a banner year for us with 4 EPs, a full length and a split 7″.

Which rules more, digital download or vinyl?
Brian: God, who would have thought vinyl would still be around, and now to start kicking ass again in the sales market? Amazing! And don’t get me started on the digital iPod “revolution.” We live in great times, well, as far as audio and the music industry are concerned.
Justin: True, but for us, currently, hand-made Art-Book EPs rule. Though digital has been incredibly kind to us.
Jeremy: I have to agree with them both. Digital is awesome from a label standpoint, and vinyl is great from a consumer standpoint.

Favorite label besides your own…
Justin: I would be remiss if I didn’t answer Mute Records.
Jeremy: I’m gonna have to say Ghostly, for many reasons, but one really good one, called “not wanting to get fired.” Just kidding, we’re all one big happy family at Ghostly.
Brian: Man, this is hard, seeing I’m not obligated to an answer since I don’t work at another label like these two. Barsuk, Secretly Canadian, Ghostly. I mean, there are the labels that just have so many great artists, and then there are the labels that have great people running them, and then you have these labels with both.

Favorite record ever…
Justin: Wow, really? That’s a fucking mean thing to ask me. It provokes hours of soul searching and self-analysis. In all likelihood, [Neutral Milk Hotel's] In The Aeroplane Over the Sea had the biggest effect on where my musical taste sits today. Lately though it’s been non-stop [Television's] Marquee Moon.
Brian: Maybe you’re just over thinking it Justin. Mine, um, Ryan Adams’ Heartbreaker. Sure, why not.
Jeremy: Oh the pressure…I abstain, courteously.

Favorite movie ever…
Jeremy: Egh… whatev’.
Brian: The Sandlot… forrreeeevvvveeeeerrrrrrrrrrrr.
Justin: Wet Hot American Summer

Vegetarian or carnivore?
Justin: Depends on the day. I go on streaks. Due to my other job I’ve been eating more Vegan food than ever before.
Brian: How posh, Justin…I’m an equal opportunity eater.
Jeremy: Ha! I too eat all of god’s creations.

Your guiltiest pleasure. The thing no one would believe you watch, read, or listen to…
Brian: I REALLY, REALLY like “Law & Order.” I could watch it all day long, and thanks to the lovely people at TNT and USA Networks, I can.
Justin: Nice! But, FOX News is fucking entertaining! It’s really scary that people actually watch it as a source for news and/or opinions, but if you turn on “The O’Reilly Factor” and just stare at it in sheer awe of the ridiculous things being said, you usually are rewarded with priceless gems of absurdity. You can get the same effect watching the religious zealots who are given their own public access shows, but their production values are so much lower and they can’t wrangle in A-Level guests to add some spice. Pound for pound, FOX news has the best jaw-dropping insanity out there.

MP3: “Heavy Meadows”

Heavy Meadows is a record soaked with sound. Yeah, the kinetic rhythms of singer/drummer Matt Rickle and bassist Julian Wettlin that made Javelins‘ first LP No Plants, Just Animals so dynamic are still there. But they take a backseat to guitarist Matt Howard’s jangly, tremelo-laden guitars and subtle variations on a theme of New Wave. Upon first listen, the album seems like a euphoric musical jaunt through soft summer evenings and cool pastures of sonic bliss. But appearances are deceiving. There are flowers, but they’re always wilting. There’s summer, but it’s always ending. It’s easy to become transfixed on the lush aural landscape of Heavy Meadows, but it’s the heavy, more than the meadows, that comes through.

Opener “Flowers” begins with a jolting whole note — a supernova explosion that radiates all of the tonal elements that will make up the entirety of the album, demanding your attention then leaving you waiting for a second or two, shell-shocked, for the rest of the song. The title track follows, an idyllic dream song warped by the frustrating reality of love lost and concluding with a cuckoo clock chirp that comes off as an attempt to cloak the honesty of the lyrics, as if to laugh off the hurt for the sake of your friends’ comfort. “Out in the Sand” is a high point and easily the most danceable tune here, but like nearly all of the songs on Heavy Meadows, it ends with a reflection on loneliness.

Javelins didn’t just write a collection of random songs. They aimed to achieve a cohesive work of art, capturing in music the contradictory nature of the wounded lover — yearning equally for escape and shelter — and the trials of starting over to begin anew. The escape comes in the form of album closer, “Red Handed.” The very last lyric of the album (”And when you heard the answer it went something like this…”) cues a dramatic musical shift from a languorous shuffle to a hard-driving fanfare, with Javelins pounding eighth notes frantically and an echo-y trumpet call bellowing overhead for over two minutes. It’s the fastest they play on the entire album, and is the musical equivalent of release. After having so much weight on your shoulders, this is the sound of zero gravity. — Scotter Bragg

Javelins’ Record Release Party, w/ Lightening Love + Nouns • 7/26 • The Belmont

Uncontrollable transport issues aside, this was the best-run and most enjoyable Pitchfork Fest yet. Booking decisions that seemed a bit suspect on paper — would Animal Collective really be able to close Saturday? — proved savvy in practice. Animal Collective held sway over 25,000 in the crisp moonlight of a warm Chicago night, their woozy indie-folk pastiches amplified with just enough electronics to keep things nicely unpredictable. It seemed like there were hundreds more of those porta-johns, because I never once waited in a line deeper than three, and yet they weren’t obtrusive (or smelly) either, and that’s key when you’re spending most of your weekend in a converted city park. There were no glaring sound issues, though Flavor Flav did have Chuck D’s mic for the first two songs of Friday evening’s performance of It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back, which dude was late for. And this year’s lineup, while perhaps overshadowed in hype or glare by other festivals, delivered on the core value of Pitchfork as a Web source for drilling down and into music scenes to see what bubbles up. And I don’t mean Bubble and Scrape, because Lou Barlow and the boys were out of their league, stuck as they were between Mission of Burma and PE, who despite the rocky start and a little too much of the ol’ “Lemme hear you say” were on point for such key jams as “Don’t Believe the Hype,” “Mind Terrorist,” and “She Watch Channel Zero.

Other highlights: No Age fueling the most positive mosh pit in the history of punk rock music on Saturday night; Spiritualized twisting ugly skree into elegiac gospel fervor on Sunday (they’re touring for the next few weeks with the Dirtbombs; check that shit out!); Les Savy Fav’s Tim Harrington proving again why he’s the best stage banterer in the business with quips about indian burial grounds, how baboons put on suntan lotion, and the difficulty of performing certain Fav jams, which were seemingly more wiry, more artful and brassy than ever; and Ghostface Killah and Raekwon’s brief but fiery Sunday afternoon performance. My Chipotle-tang burrito was nothing to fuck with, either.

While the prevalence of fanny packs in the crowd was disturbing, and a look that I’ll call “Hot Mess” was everywhere — college-age girls rocking damaged high heels, tattered and clingy black clothing, and walk of shame mascara so artfully mis-arranged that it could have been tattooed on — what was most striking to me about the crowd for this year’s Pitchfork Fest was its significant averageness. Amongst the usual indie rocker/hipster tropes were both regular and rocker moms and dads with strollers, Average Internet Users/midlevel professionals, and teenagers in black shorts and oversized heavy metal T-shirts, the sort of kids you see smoking stolen cigarettes at street fairs. While the corpo-entertainment juggernaut of Lollapalooza increasingly shoulders out local flavors for its annual August weekend along Chicago’s lakefront, the Fork’s fest feels like a destination for the opposite of all that. It feels inviting, and this time around, it often felt invigorating. (But then, aren’t the Hold Steady always invigorating?) Recall the gaggle of metal kids I mentioned earlier. When Cox performed by his lonesome on Saturday afternoon as Atlas Sound, arranging electronic loops as he sighed mournfully into a mic and played an occasional acoustic guitar, it was all those young dudes in black T-shirts and scowls that lost their shit first. Maybe they knew his work before; I don’t know. But I like to think they discovered Atlas Sound and a bunch of other shit there in the fields of Pitchfork, amongst the heat and the porta-johns and the strollers and crumpled beer cups. Beyond the buzz and the bell curve and the culture of Internet music, beyond even the way it can brew haterade and clueless indifference, watching people discover new jams is what’s truly rewarding about a summer music festival. At this one, lights and music were on everyone’s minds.

JTL

Photos here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gISlB1IdUjI

Faunts, “M4 (Part II)” (Friendly Fire Recordings, 2007)

Go to the beach, and you get crabs. At least that what Canadian shoegaze quintet Faunts want us to believe. But how could you not want to take the chance, given that Faunts’ new-wavy goth rock simultaneously brings to mind Slowdive and the “Nightrider” theme song? Plus, there’s a battle going on of seismic proportions, American Crab Gladiators-style. Also, props to the keyboardist for sporting a trench coat, despite the still prevalent Columbine connotations. Ballsy, dude. — Ryan Allen

THE MAE SHI

MARCO POLIO & THE NEW VACCINES

LENNY STOOFY

– Pics By: Matthew Franklin + Sam Doyle

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L–cqAI3IUI

The Beach Boys, “Wouldn’t It be Nice” (Capitol, 1966)

Check out the Beach Boys getting all Monkees at the beginning of this clip. Well, it’s not like the Monkees invented walking funnily in unison; they were ripping off the British Invasion bands. But given the consistent critical blush for the Beach Boys — and how dearly their music is held by folk types and indie dudes for its intellectual hotness — it’s cool to see them clowning around. And then the performance footage at the end. Look at those stage moves! — Thomas Rooker White

So, click here for your chance to win!

Mason Proper and Hott Garbage Music Videos are shooting a video near Detroit for a song off the band’s upcoming second album, Olly Oxen Free, and they are looking for people age 18 or above who are comfortable free-form dancing on camera. People under 18 can apply if they REALLY want to be a part. Everyone’s face will be concealed by a mask. If you’re an actual dancer, especially a popper/locker/jazz dancer/freaky contortionist/double-jointed, they especially want you. The best dancers will be featured more prominently in the video.

The video will be shot all day July 27th at a location just outside of Detroit. Food will be provided. If you and your friends are interested in taking part, please contact Rick Boven or Mike Berlucchi at Hott Garbage Music Videos — by emailing hottgarbage@gmail.com — as soon as possible to RSVP and ensure yourself a spot.

—

Oh, and if there is any question as to if this is worth your time or not, Mason Proper make some pretty rad videos. Peep this one here for “Miss Mary Lou Carreau” if you don’t believe us.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ow1gS3m1ckM

Olivia Newton-John, “Physical” (American TV, 1981)

To avoid controversy in the early 1980s, all you had to do was shift the focus of your little sex pop song to the bright synthetics, bunchy leg warmers, and happy-go-lucky headbands of the burgeoning workout movement. That’s what Olivia Newton-John did, as she displays on this episode of “Solid Gold.” Not only did\ the marketing gag guarantee multiplatinum rack-ups of the Physical album, but Newton-John was now a part of a movement. If she was still releasing music in the mid-1990s, she would’ve found a way to do a swing music album. — Johnny Loftus

MP3: “Drown”

Her label relates that Ames Room, the full-length debut of Bergen, Norway’s Silje Nes, was recorded at home. Really? She must have easily-roused neighbors, because from the tranquil clicks and throaty whispers of opener “Over All” to the comparatively shouty mood-pop of “Recurring Dream,” this record conducts itself with the carefulness and muffled volume of someone hiding from the authorities.

The frequent bits of negative space and numerous loops and overdubs on Ames actually help Nes’s cone of silence recording technique, as they lend at least some weight to her tiny vocal presence. But something like “Shapes, Electric” helps too, with its cracked and spluttered electronic explorations backing up the layers of Silje that form its central melody. “Magnetic Moments of Spinning Objects” is another highlight — there’s some human laughter in there, and a music box effect, and creaking doors, and maybe a dehumidifier on the fritz. It’s the kitchen sink backing up the quietest repetitive keyboard lilt on top, so if you’ve ever fallen for the gentle melodies, flighty instrumental fancy, and sense of solitude in music coming out of the Nordic countries, you better make room for Silje Nes. Don’t worry, she won’t make very much noise. — Johnny Loftus

MP3: “Speckled Eggs”

Austin’s Loxsly aren’t out to rewrite the book on pop with their recent Flashlights EP. The genre-busting indie-orchestras that have appeared more and more frequently over the past few years have left many bands questioning if two sousaphones is enough, or pondering how to squeeze in more hurdy-gurdy (Man Man, anyone?). By comparison, Loxsly — following up 2006’s cheap-keyboard infested Maps and Organs — appears like a fairly conventional rock band. Their sound hearkens back to a time when the indie rock was still just a little alt., and even their relative quirkiness is quaintly familiar.

The immediate reference point is the Eels, in no small part because Loxsly’s singer Cody Ground delivers melodies with the same frog-in-the-throat, deadpan delivery of Mark Oliver Everett. That the first song on the EP is entitled “Lamprey Eels” either indicates they’ve heard this line of thinking before, or that somehow news of Mr. E hasn’t made it down to Austin just yet. Obvious comparison’s aside, what’s undeniable across the short four song set is that each is a well crafted exercise — the vintage keys, dark ambiance, and distant guitars sound like they could be borrowed from a lost “Twin Peaks” soundtrack. But like most every element here, they work in support of clever melodies and song craft.

Maybe that seems like it should be the bare minimum for any recording: Good songs. Good arrangements. Good performances. But far too often, bands — even ones with some obvious talent — seem to be easily distracted by the premise of putting together a record. Loxsly has clearly avoided that pitfall with the here-then-it’s-gone Flashlights. Beyond that, we could come up with far worse strategies for up-and-coming bands than, “Give them four songs and leave them wanting more.” Guess it worked, because we do. — Paul Serilla

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MwyPI-zKqRs

Moby, “Disco Lies” (Mute, 2008)

Is this what the feverish murder dreams of vegans look like? One lone chick escapes death by foodstuff, grows up to be bird pimpin’, only to stumble upon the suspect street food joint that totally ate his brethren for lunch. And then it really gets nuts. Feathers fly through a chase scene, and in the meantime the Mobes’ crystalline stab at early to mid-1980s disco/freestyle soundtracks the shit. And in the end, it’s like the clip for Daft Punk’s “Da Funk” meets Death Wish. — Johnny Loftus

MP3: “Pot Kettle Black”

Remember when Jewel went slut-pop? Imagine Omaha’s Tilly and the Wall heading in the same direction, but not having to sell their soul in order to do so. Let us explain: Opener “Tall Tall Grass” be-bops its way in typical Tilly fashion — it’s twee, it’s poppy, and it sounds like another Omaha band with too much hype but not a whole lot of delivery (hey, take your pick). But as the album quickly progresses, old fans are in for a bit of a surprise, as the rest of the album switches things up to show that even twee-kitties like Tilly and the Wall like a little electro in their Meow Mix. Their classic glee-pop sound is still there, but o (yep, that’s the title) offers more electronic musings and heavier hooks this time around — and just like Jewel’s 2003 dance-pop head-scratcher 0304, the band ditches some of those acoustic guitars and over-earnestness for something a bit more new-wave and slick. Indeed, while a nice novelty, it seems band may have discovered that the tap-shoes-as-percussion thing that put them on the map may have not be the only trick’s up their sleeve (or pant leg, as it were). o’s forays into more polished terrain shows that they’re capable of being a group of songwriters and performers, not just a boring mess of glitter, rainbows, and Gene Kelly clickity-clack. Stand-out track “Pot Kettle Black” is a happy-go-lucky “fuck you” anthem (and also a Wilco song, right?), possibly aimed at everyone who thought they were the one-dimensional group they seemed to be over the course of their past two full-lengths; we guess touring the world with dirt-bag dance phenoms CSS most likely do that to you. Next up: Judges on an awful “American Idol” for country fans and dating professional bull riders? Doubtful. But it’s fun to hear them mess with the formula, even if just for a little bit. Tap on, dudes. — Adam O’Connor

via best of craigslist:

I’d like to start this off by saying one thing: IF YOU DON’T LIKE GUITAR, IF YOU HAVE A FAMILY HISTORY OF CARDIAC INFIRMITY, OR IF YOU ARE IN ANY WAY OF A WEAK DISPOSITION, HIT THE BACK BUTTON RIGHT AWAY.

But who doesn’t like guitar, right? I don’t think you understand. Jimi Hendrix played guitar. Groucho Marx played guitar. I think Winston Churchill might have played guitar. What I play is something different.

Picture a Verdi opera: 3 hours of music, some of beautiful and ennobling, at times piquant and subtle, other times dramatic and inspiring. Take those three hours of music, those thousands of musical notes, and compress them into 4 measures of incomprehensible speed, delivered with earth-shaking finesse and a raucous disregard for any physiological limit to human auditory perception. I cannot stress this enough: I will play guitar so fast your face will melt.
The last girlfriend I had was dearer to me than anything that doesn’t have steel strings and pickups. It’s with a heavy heart that I must confess that she met a tragic demise. I sat her down to perform for her, as she had never heard me play. Within mere seconds of the furious and almost satanically fast deluge of musical notes, she burst into flames and was reduced to a smoldering pile of ash. I have grieved for 7 months, and now it is time to seek a hardier companion.

I seek a woman of no flimsy construction who can tolerate the cyclone of death that my guitar will unleash upon her. Think about the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Holy Spirit (or whatever the hell that poorly rendered gaseous conglomerate was supposed to be) ravaged the Nazis by melting their flesh from their mortal bones. This is what my guitar playing does, except there is only vapor left, no bones. I cannot stress this enough: I will play guitar so fast the Earth will be rent asunder and armies of hellions will spew forth to wreak havoc upon the human population.

I don’t care if you are fat, thin, average, need attention, busty, or even whether you genetically qualify as a human being. All that I care about, the single thing that will hold my attention, is a woman who can listen to my terror-inspiring, WMD-unleashing, virgin-defiling, hell-bent-on-misanthropic-destruction tornado of picking and whammy bar stunts without dying immediately.

If you think you can witness the senseless and brutalizing destruction that is my guitar playing without being maimed, incinerated, mutilated, lacerated, or dismembered in any way, please send me an email and I will arrange a meeting.

Postscript: I think I’ll have to have you sign documentation of release before we meet, however, as I am a wanted man in 48 states for assaulting an officer via sweep picking, and my guitar playing has been banned in Norway for causing several churches to burn to the ground. And yeah, I’ve never been to Norway.

— If you can’t comprehend the power of the shredding described above, take a look at the vid below. - Brandon W.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qFzRWiQ3RA

Kings Have Long Arms, “Big Umbrella” (Domino, 2008)

As Candie Payne strolls through the rowhouses, this clip for Kings Have Long Arms‘ “Big Umbrella” really starts to feel like 1970s British television, the sort of light comedy with a bit of the madcap thrown in that, here in America anyway, you’d see on late-night PBS. And hope for boobs. Then it goes color, and cartoony, and it gets into some Monty Python shizz. Not a bad song, either, though it is sort of pleasantly boring. You can always change the channel. — Johnny Loftus

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UvK5eo1OOE

The Corrections, “Barcode” (EMI, 2008)

This is the video for the Corrections‘ debut single “Barcode,” from their full-length Repeat After Me. The band have repeated after plenty of types with this — you’ve heard that spiny guitar line before. That’s probably OK though, in general. Nothing’s new anymore. But even though it’s cool when the band’s vocalist starts to be attacked by a flurry of chalk streaks midway through the clip, the sense here is that “Barcode” belongs in that early to mid-1990s “120 Minutes” zone, when MTV’s alternative warhorse was stocking its waters with so many soundalikes, it contributed to the final saturation of a market. Everything’s cyclical, just as nothing’s new, and even though we don’t want to blame one band for anything, it’s difficult to imagine the Corrections really killing this live. They’re a more earnest Interpol, maybe. But Interpol isn’t much of anything anymore, either. — Johnny Loftus

Van Halen, “Hot for Teacher” (Warner, 1984)

Detour is too busy redesigning its Twitter page to study the why’s and how’s of it, but there’s a real problem in this country with teachers “having their way with” their students. It’s part of a larger social trend, to be sure. But rather than theorize, or even trot out a few experts to spout their theories, most news outlets just use a reference to this, the iconic 1984 single from Van Halen. Every joke, every shot, every Diamond Dave “WHOOOAAA” – it’s burned in the brains of those who lived through it, or even better, grew up with it. It didn’t make us hot for our teachers in real life, because we went to school when the instructors were either old or nuns. – Thomas Rooker White

Dan Nelson’s new book All Known Metal Bands — collecting the seemingly endless myriad of heavy metal band names — is a compendium of linguistic intention — after all, metal bands mean business, and more so than any other genre of music, a metal band’s name stands for something. Metal is not a category that embraces overt irony or thinks self-effacing names are cute. And even in the rare cases in which a band’s name is ironic or self-effacing, the message conveyed must still employ the basic metal naming principle: the name must, in one word or short phrase say, “We will slay you. We are not fucking around. Prepare to be eviscerated by the power of song.”

Removed from any other context, this book allows the reader to experience this intention in its rawest form. Sure, a picture of four shirtless, long-haired, men in leather pants, wearing pentagrams, standing in a front of a church whilst the wild eyed lead singer, captured by the camera in mid-scream, waves an upside-down cross is pretty badass. But if the name “Church Of Misanthropy” alone doesn’t automatically invoke this image in your head, then you are to be pitied for your lack of metal imagination.

Letting your thoughts fill in the gaps allows readers to take any of the bands listed and inflate them to mythic proportions. How do we know that an extraordinarily large creature who performs hammer-ons using the horn on his forehead doesn’t front “Giant’s Dance”? Who is to say “Wizard’s Promiss” wasn’t conjured as a weapon by an evil sorcerer obsessed with getting revenge on his former apprentice for swiping his “axe of death?” Could “Goldenaxe” be anything other than a quartet of Satanic alchemists who discovered how to turn common metals into the heaviest metal of all – the metal of thrash? Prove these theories wrong.

The book is also visually arresting. Like anything from McSweeney publishing, the presentation is painstakingly perfect. From the blue and gold embossing on the hardbound cover to the silver print on black pages, you’ll be proud to display this book. And when it catches your friend’s eye and he picks it up, anticipate his hasty dismissal – but four hours later you’ll still be looking through the book and marveling at the power of the names to draw you into the dark side. — Laura Witkowski