MIDNIGHT PIZZA RECORDS:
A MANIFESTO (SORT OF)

People ask if we’re a record label. The answer is no. Not really.

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A record label has an office building with bad art in the lobby. We have a P.O. Box that, depending on the time of day, might actually be the third booth from the back in a 24-hour diner that smells faintly of bleach and regret. A record label has quarterly reports. We have a stack of greasy napkins with chord progressions scribbled on them.

 

Our A&R department isn't a person. It’s a series of malfunctioning payphones across the Cinder Belt, the static between AM radio stations late at night, and the hum from a vending machine that only sells one kind of off-brand soda. We don’t scout for talent. We listen for dissonance. We listen for the wobble.

 

We sign sounds, not bands. We look for artists who are broken in a beautiful way. Bands that sound like a thunderstorm trapped in a phone booth. Singers whose screams have a melody. Drummers who argue with the rhythm of the city and win. We found one band because their first gig made the projected stars in an old planetarium cry. We found another because their guitar riffs get you high without ever having to light a match.

 

The world wants clean signals, predictable choruses, and music that fits neatly into a playlist between an ad for a car you can't afford and a podcast about murdering people. We are not interested in that. We are interested in the hiss on the tape. The ghost note. The sound of a keyboard weeping oily tears. The feedback that sounds like it’s trying to tell you a secret.

 

We think a record should be like a cold slice of pizza at 3 AM. Not perfect, maybe, but necessary. It gets you through the night.

 

Don’t send us your demo. We don’t have an address for that. Just play. Play loud. Play weird. If your music is for us, we’ll hear it. On a broadcast from a dead star. In the feedback of a pawn shop amplifier. In the rhythm of a leaky faucet.

 

We’re listening.