“Let’s be clear on one thing: Quttinirpaaq ain’t no ordinary noise-rock band. In fact, they might not even be noise-rock. Sure, they’re noisy. Loud, sure. Abrasive, even. Guitars, drums, some electrical doodads here and there. Bass? Maybe. It’s all so murky though, the atmosphere oozes with low-end. Who knows what the hell is what on this record? And even less importantly, no one’s quite sure how to categorize it, and I have no idea why they would choose the Inuit word for “top of the world,” the name of Canada’s northernmost national park, as the brand for their sound. It’s all a mess; a glorious, cleverly syncopated, total mess. It’s what you want out of barebones guitar rock in the first place – an ancient visceral wreck of bloody guitar strings and whiskey-drenched hopelessness. No ideas, just sound, argh, louder, louder! And as the title implies, sometimes you can dance (read: convulse) along.”
Decoder Magazine


Syrup-thick bass licks run amok. Messy, scratching and screeching effects cut across fuzzed-out space noise. The bash-your-brains-in pounding of the drums rounds things off. Ugly, painful, whacked-out sludge, sure, but this is Quttinirpaaq’s second full length album this year, so it’s gotta go further (and it does). Pounding, minimal hypno-riffs extend past the horizon, shards of guitar feedback fall in and out of the landscape, spiky electronics fizz and pop like a mellotron buried under a mound of Popul Vuh records.
Clear vinyl with red splatter.
Color insert.
Limited edition of 300 only.

“December’s Vinyl of the Month must surely go to those miscreants of stumbling inchoate noise: America’s Quttinirpaaq, who’s new LP LET’S HANG OUT should satisfy everyone from the most lugubrious of Liquorball fans to the dislocated post-HALF MACHINE LIP MOVES Chrome moves of ‘80s Factrix. Highly disorientating and incandescent abruptures of Mung Worship issue forth with neither attention to beginnings, endings or even the correct speed! Beautifully shafting the listener into a coma of What-The-Fuck-ness. Guitars at 16 rpm are accompanied by drums at 78 rpm, cadaverous voices that sound correct at no speed dominate the proceedings, somebody roasts Von LMO over a spit in the near distance whilst members of Monoshock and the Butthole Surfers do battle over who should supply the most inappropriate song titles. Better still, kiddies, this doleful collection arrives on clear blood-splatter vinyl with some muzzied-up pre-Lord Kitchener on the label. Sergeant Pepper this ain’t. Get your own copy from the excellent Rural Isolation Project and get a load of that midrange! Phew!”
Julian Cope

“…an obscure group of Austin-based noiseniks who channel the spirits of the Butthole Surfers, Chrome and Einstürzende Neubauten. Call it industrial space-skronk, with cortex-bruising “tunes” like the distorted, droning, sludgy “Diary of a Pig Keeper’s Wife,” the whirling, pleasurably repetitive “Stork” and pounding psychedelic jam “Vamos A Martar Santana.” (Yes, this is a band that sketches out its song titles in between bong hits, as evidenced by the preceding along with “Cop Boner,” “Man Without a Body” and “A Secret History of Belgian Dog Owners.”) Feedback, distortion, heavily phased electronics and random stereo panning, plus gargantuan drumming and barely-audible vocals are the order of the day here.”

“The Austin, TX amplified cavemen Quttinirpaaq need to emit some signals about their very existence every once in a while, and each time the effects are deafening and lo-fi as fuck. With a sludgy opening reminisent of The Goslings or early Skullflower, Let’s Hang Out later delves into a more stoner friendly territory, with overdriven, brutally fuzzy stoner and psychedelic rock pieces filling the vinyl with relentless narcotic bliss. There are definitely some killer riffs here, all hidden under waves of distortion and crunchy production that turns the guitar into sheets of sandpaper, ready to peel your skin off. And the funniest thing is, you’re gonna be thankful for it. Instane, dirty and highly recommended!”
Weed Temple