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Giving Indie Acts A Plug, or Pulling It
Apparently to prove that he's not a huge, elitist jerk, Schreiber admits that he's a fan of Hall and Oates. Yeah, those guys. Revel in his affinity for "Kiss on My List," "Maneater" and "Sara Smile," people. And know, too, that he's an unabashed Justin Timberlake fan.
"People wouldn't think that was a 'cool' thing to like," he says of Hall and Oates. "But for me, it's not about what's cool, even if Pitchfork tends to come off that way."
  Ryan Schreiber with colleague Chris Kaskie, left, at the South by Southwest music festival in March. Schreiber's Web site is "shining light on bands that are taking risks," says one music retailer. (By Amber Novak For The Washington Post) |
His wife, Elizabeth, tells you that even when Schreiber was working as a record store clerk, he had no problem selling customers albums by, say, Enigma, if that's what they really wanted.
"He doesn't hate you if you love Celine Dion," Elizabeth says. "I mean, he might not hire you. But he won't judge."
Schreiber speaks with a slight lisp, and he says "dude" and "sweet" and "niiiiice" probably more than most publishers. He drives a used Honda and rents a modest apartment.
"Money sort of isn't important," says Schreiber, who declines to provide specifics about Pitchfork's advertising revenue.
"It's to the point where we can sustain six full-time people and two part-time reporters and pay the entire freelance staff for reviews. But we're always sort of cutting it close."
He insists he has no plans to sell even the smallest stake in the site, though there's certainly been interest among investors and "other people with proposals."
"It's really important for me to retain complete ownership," he says. "I don't want to compromise my ideals for a lump sum. It's not about money; it's about journalistic integrity."
But enough about business. Schreiber is in Austin for music, at an annual festival that celebrates discovery, and he's trying to determine what band to see next. He's put together a tipsheet for himself, but the thing appears to be about 125 names long. He's like a kid in a candy store. A very, very crowded candy store.
He's trying to push his way past a crowd outside a club called Eternal. It's a mob scene, really, and Schreiber is slightly agitated. Places to go, bands to see, food to eat.
He wonders what the fuss is about, why the crowd has gathered on the street, and then it hits you: These people are all here to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, one of the more recent Pitchfork success stories, a new band whose self-titled, self-released CD Schreiber's site praised with an effusive 9.0-point review last June. The entire pressing sold out, as did the band's live shows, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah became one of the industry's hottest unsigned acts, an uppercase Buzz Band.
Schreiber shakes his head and shouts a sarcastic apology to the assemblage: "Sorry, people!" He's soured some on the group, apparently because singer Alec Ounsworth hasn't given the Internet enough credit for its role in having broken the band. (MP3 blogs and other music sites also had a hand in spreading the gospel.) Plus, Clap Your Hands just isn't that great live, Schreiber says.
"I'm really anticipating their next album," he says. "At their heart, they write really good songs. But I think they got too much too soon."
To which you point out that Schreiber is largely to blame.
He shrugs, then orders a slice of pizza.
