Certain bands are better suited to particular interview settings. Young indie types sometimes need sufficient alcohol lubrication to drop their cheeky guard and speak frankly. Veteran musicians seem to work better over dinner. And then there's Visqueen, a multidimensional trio that--between their music and their collective personality--is best suited somewhere goofy and sexed up, like a strip club, or someplace silly and innocent like the zoo. Since Seattle's strip clubs are a pathetic little lot, I opt for the zoo.

We enter Woodland Park, and after an inexplicably long security check, drift towards the monkey exhibit. It's unclear if we're heading toward orangutans or elephants, but bassist Kim Warnick is quite intrigued by the possibility of interaction with a peacock, a colorful interloper that will follow us around for much of the interview. Frontwoman Rachel Flotard and drummer Ben Hooker meanwhile sketch me a portrait of what it was like working with Hooker's longtime chum Phil Ek on the band's sophomore release, Sunset on Dateland.

"I was really, really excited to work with him because we've always gotten along really well and he's one of the funniest people I know," relays Hooker. "He's almost too funny--you get to a point where you're like, 'Dude, quit making me laugh.' At the same time he knows what needs to be done--he doesn't mess around."

Flotard affirms Ek's credentials. "Working with Phil was a new situation that we had to get used to. [Visqueen's debut was recorded with producer Barrett Jones.] The studio is such a personally high-strung situation--you get so freaked out about [making] what you lay down the best that you can deliver. You can't hide from tape. So when you're crying and freaking out about getting something right, it's important to have someone there who's pulling out his bottom lip and tapping the top of his nose, pretending to collect buggers and eat them," she says cheerfully, watching Warnick antagonize the petulant peacock by shouting "Come on! Show us what you got!"

Whether they're interacting with animals or their loyal local audiences, it's clear the band members genuinely enjoy each other's company--and, despite an ambitious touring schedule and a fair amount of earnest self-marketing, rarely take anything too seriously. "To really get too serious about it, in general, with the election coming up and so much else is going on the world--that's kind of ridiculous," says Flotard.

But you wouldn't necessarily imagine such effortless glee from listening to this record. Flotard's still using her trademark lyrical approach of abstract imagery and shifting perspectives. Much of what saves Visqueen from the potential clichés inherent in their chosen genre is the way that their classic power-pop punch contrasts unexpectedly with contradictory lyrics that are as morose as the tunes are melodic. Still, there's something about this record that's indicative of impressive artistic growth on the part of our hometown heroes. Undeniably darker in subject matter and more arena-rock ready in sound (thanks to the mixing skills of Adam Kasper, the man responsible for the depth and breadth of recordings by Queens of the Stone Age and the Foo Fighters), Dateland is an effort that should further the band's pull with fans who appreciate their ability to blend brawny, beefy guitars with feverishly hooky pop melodies.

Shortly after our interview, Visqueen left for a string of national dates with the Muffs--perfectly matched tourmates, both in sound and humor. Flotard sends me periodic e-mails relaying the highlights of their journey, and unsurprisingly, they're having a blast. "This tour has been HILARIOUS spelled in all caps," she writes. "Our first show was in Austin and we kicked it like a rented mule. The South delivered hurricanes, barbecue, floods, bugs, Pricelined high-rise hotels with toilet phones, amazing audiences, and the best shows we've ever played. When you can watch a band that you love every night," she says of the Muffs, "it makes the job a dream." And not unexpectedly, they also found their way to an after-hours strip club in Atlanta. "I got yelled at by a dancer with pancake boobs who looked exactly like Chaka from Land of the Lost," she writes. "She could crush beer cans and I had to hide from her. Then [Muff's guitarist] Kim Shattuck yelled 'dingleberry' and we all had to hide."

editor@thestranger.com