Young Freebooters create a blink-and-it’ll-fly-by-you solar system illustration, journeying from ambient to harsh in a stalled heart beat. Warm drones with thick smudges of fluctuating patterns grip the listener’s attention and drops them into a series of vignettes about our relationship with the universe, while psychedelic blips descend from the cosmos and circulate through your bloodstream. The tones soon crumble into a rhythm shackled deep within a forest canyon, with howls dragging the melodies towards a sparse spiritual tent revival in the distance. Low-end buzzing grants an apt platform for a blissful space melody where blinking minds speak with a perceptive passer-by. Striking chimes ring, evaporating crickets chirp, and a slow church organ marks a rebirth ceremony. YF give away all of this, simply to help the listener embrace the unknown. Word. A total magnum opus of droned-out euphoria. Limited to sixteen uniquely hand-illustrated tapes, straight from the melted mind of AndAndrea.

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View more cover art.

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artwork courtesy of Erin Wilson

When playing becomes ritual, when derangement becomes religion, there is only magik. Behind us nothing, stretching out before us, nothing. In a single moment is all, seeing before seen, glorious lights upon upturned faces, tears streaming down as understanding floods our cells. Life is deadly, make it scream before we fade forever away.

At it’s purest, recorded music is two things: basements and one track recorders. YF’s newest transmission starts out with some fuzzed heavy riffage and synth overload while progressively deconstructing itself to a totally zoned out “I forgot we we’re recording” style gem. Much more chill then their previous blown out shred fests. In a numbered edition of 16 stamped tapes in free-form mind collage sleeves protected by crystal cases.

Earth drones make dreamy lullabies…

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At times ferocious, at times lying half dead on the floor, Young Freebooters send out blasted broken-wire transmissions from their smoking wooden hearts; cross-connecting minds with instruments, sending cryptic smoke signals to the heavens.

A Day with the Harriers::

Telepathic synchronization; static, harmonization that’s all too like home, clairvoyant drones fill and re-fill the environment they are dropped in; more dynamic than that, though, because the whole thing is dipped in rotten murk that eventually begins to balm; the suspense just adds to the s-s-s-siked factor. HEAVY synths layered over meaningful murkiness – progression mirroring a fox hunt; from lightness to darkness – a tonal blast reveals itself, and your mind is pretty much ripped. The hour is over all too soon. Lucky for you, this session is a two-fer.

A Night with the Hounds::

Constantly crumbling gnarled sketches captured to tape; shit goes down hard. Pulsing impetus; at the micro-level everything’s a bit claustrophobic, it’s completely distressing to try to decode everything that’s going on – ever present -ever lasting tonal static: annihilation. When you take a step back, though, it’s totally beautiful; it’s epic-factor parallels the apocalypse, but that’d be totally beautiful in the same way: burning buildings, burning tones; tectonic disaster, sonic explosion. It all comes tumbling down with some of the the strangest YF tales to date.

All housed within a wooden shield & limited to sixteen 2xc60s…

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A DAY with the HARRIERS
A NIGHT with the HOUNDS

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Just when you thought all was about to fade to grey, an epic expanse of orange, blue, and a phenomenon known only as the “green glow” blinds you. The rolling hills seem endless, maybe they are… At the moment of severe spatial reconsideration, saxophone squeals seem to rise up from the ground right under your feet. The contents of this tape are organic/communal compositions, the flow of consciousness is ever flowing/never slowing. Horizontally oriented jams for an up and down kind of world. Dreamy drones emerge, conquering your body; there’s no other choice. You must accept this sleepy sonic subversion: drenched out tones that’ll take you sky high in a fluidity of blurry beauty. One hour long slow burner that is certainly one of the most dynamic experiences of YF’s sonic saga. The recording is cruelly non-manipulated, a raw scroll peeled fresh off the frontal lobe. In a numbered edition of 16 tapes in crystal cassettes wearing a death jacket of conceptual xerox cover art straight from the House of Adam.

SIDE A | SIDE B

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The Great Unraveling continues. Looking down, looking in, under the floorboards, under the skin. A tape/trip for the star/shoe/dirt-gazing crowd. A soundtrack for shapeshifting glow-zones deep in the distance. The tone blanket crawls on slow and soft like a morphine drip, engulfing you in a psychic smog of memory-loss drugs & tapestries of delay pedals… All great avenues to feeling blissed/lost. An analog massage from amplified hands with wire fingers; YF serve up an hour long bowl of sonic syrup where buried tones bleed like clouds and bouts of phasing stasis lapse into electric déjà vu. The next step towards the ultimate goal of conquering Western Civilization with black-hole, black-eye jams bellowed from the dark alleys of Covington, KY. The recording is cruelly non-manipulated, a raw document of real time dream machine vision-questing. Crystal cassettes wearing fancy jackets with collage-scribble Erin artwork in a numbered edition of 16.

SIDE A | SIDE B

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artwork courtesy of Jeff Salttruck

In this, their 4th release, YF takes up cold steel chains, binding aleatoric squalls with sonorous, contemplative astral hums. Sloughing off a husk of baked Kentucky mud, Freebooters’ aural onslaught manifests the unremitting soundtrack of an oneiric futurism, visions of a new, eugenic child growing under the light of base and apotheosized science. Ruined strings tear at patches of skin shrieking moribund electric blasphemies. Feral, decaying currents conjure imaginations of primal blood beasts agonized with violent eschatological hallucinations: drag races and holocausts of cashed steel skeletons. Nightmares bleed into stark and sterile dreams of silent infinity. Low organ tones beat the air, break into the ear with horrific reveries of stone wildernesses. Vortical oscillations like dumb mouths whisper the subliminal credo of technocratic uniformity, blissful promises of a perpetually hushed and obedient future. Here, YF shows their capacity to breed two kinds of monsters in a contest of hard-edged brutality against vacuous ectoplasmic undertones. Packaged in crystal cassettes in a numbered addition of 16, dubbed in the back of an Astro-van in passage from Chicago to Cincinnati.

SIDE A | SIDE B

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Summertime is all about transcending space & hanging with your buds (AKA: swimming, going to the beach, making new friends, barbequing, careless fun, parking lot skating on an old 80′s slab, driving around in cabriolets, making out all day, & just relaxing). YF celebrates the deep Summer laze by bro-ing down under the sole mission of fuzzing out your frontal lobe. This c60 is filled with metal scrapes, vacuous howls with teeth bared, tape manipulations, contact mic-ery, & a feedback that creates blankets of abrasive drones with meditative tones. Guitar incantations float around the highest peaks of forgotten mounts. Fuzzed out pyschedelia, primitive percussion, & subtle vocal drones occasionally emanate through the haze. These tracks are much more restrained than their previous output showing a definite direction and focus, most particularly the fourth track, which could easily have a chorus and refrain. A subdued chord organ adds a new layer to the murky manipulations and feedback howling for which YF is known. Total washed out summertime drones for the punk dudes or sunshine thrash for the noise set. Packaged in crystal cassettes in a numbered edition of 16.

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(caution: Izaxxx goes completely falcon-core on the bonus track)

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Boiling hot slab of low-end frequency nightmares courtesy of Covington’s finest. Gotta play this one LOUD to drill the summer moths right out of your ears and get them to dance their sweet sweeet courtship around your skull. Totally grimey and buried under streams of sticky icky syrup… it never ends. Tones fray like worms up from the Ohio Valley dirt, morph into cords coiled on the damp practice room floor, crawl the walls, and stitch themselves into the sky. The fabric is infinite, in/of everything. Driving a spike into a particularly pure vein of a raw soul’s haze hidden in the forearm of our fucked psyche; Pootlinautch unfurls from fractured, feedback crystal-divining into slow-burn gravitational mass into astral motion/destruction. Packaging is hand-drawn crayon explorations concealed within unique handmade sock puppets representing the varied faces of the Young Freebooter; limited to 16 pieces.

Side A | Side B

(caution: track A:three is a total face-melter)

cassette artwork (click for bigger)

See all artwork & puppets here.

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Modern life is full of chains: of ice, iron, money, ideas. So nothing suits the dull scorch of endless summer better than violent prison break catharsis. Growth is god dudes. Gotta change, morph, MOVE, ring in new harvests and let fresh blank tapes bloom black in the sun. This shadowy c90 holds up to the sky 45 awesome minutes of liberated blood rumblings, meandering animal thrash, and shattered-shackle séances. No walls, no laws, no limit. Old world clatter meanders against dead-dub bass echoes while thin air prayers levitate from weary throats. A spiral-eyed masterpiece of tattered tunic improv. Burrow through sub-cellar levels of spirit dust and cursed dirt worship. Ponder bowed drones, keyed rust, and disembodied drumming before drifting back to the tomb. The B-side is a deja-vu conjured burner starting where the other side ended. Limited to 15 numbered copies with art by the band and tapes salvaged from the swamp; sealed within a fabric of summer flowers.

Side A: Live at Muddy Bottoms (24July2007)
Side B: Evil at Buddy Mottom’s (2007July24)

cassette artwork
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