Under interrogation, bass-slinger Ingebrigt Håker Flaten
was unable to produce conclusive answers as to what the organization known as The Young Mothers was actually up to.
There is no question that they have been running guns for Jazz terrorists, been
serious chemical mules for hip-hopsters, been salvaging nuclear submarines for
heavy metal junkies, been trading in ethnic artefacts on an electronic black
market, and staying tuned to top 40 radio the whole time, if only to discover
how perverted the other half is. A spare Willie Nelson CD remains on hand in
case of emergencies.
Featuring expressive rhythmic object-bashers Frank Rosaly
and Stefan Gonzalez, reed agitator Jason Jackson, violent 6-string masseuse
Jonathan Horne, and multitasking uberhuman Jawaad Taylor, The Young Mothers
represent an Austin-centric conglomerate that assemble heterogeneous auditory
overloads, diverse sensibilities, and multitudinous sensibilia. A Mother's Work Is Never Done is their
homage to Austin via omnifarious channels, some real, some imagined, but all in
full and rambunctious working order at maximum capacity.
A stormy night radio broadcast live from a meatpacking
factory suddenly erupts into a punk jazz riot featuring Les Claypool as guest
Molotov cocktail mixer. There is a great deal of bloodshed and destruction. The
ambulance manages (barely) to escape the machinegun fire in the end. A retreat
to the corner store proves no less fraught with urban peril.
We enter a lazy afternoon in the angriest lounge on Earth
(open door policy, but zero tolerance for assholes). A door at the back opens,
and we discover the Jazz Liberation Front's Annual Barbecue in full swing,
complete with live stallion roasting on a spit. The aroma itself is succulent.
Meanwhile, somewhere in planetary orbit, Space Station
Tango Yankee Mike's inhabitants are re-mapping the stars in the constellation
Virgo, but discover that the city lights on the dark side of the earth form the
constellation of the hammerhead shark. It transpires that Boggy Creek is the
During this time, the Martian colony of New Austin has
entered a spaghetti western phase, where life is cheap, and death is pretty
good value too. The Arabic Karakhaneh gang have a controlling stake along most
of the frontier, all achieved without much in the way of blood-loss. The
classical conservatory on Deimos write occasional pieces for every square meter
lost and gained. A relic of Ingmar Bergman is preserved in perspex for future
The underworld and underground jazz mutants of Austin, TX,
come together to celebrate the feast of Zappadan. Stravinsky's ghost steals
most of the refreshments to create a scale model of the Devil's Tower. Most
participants have drier feet than usual, yet perspire heavily. The inclusion of
chocolate makes a welcome change.
Somewhere, south by southwest, in the dark jungle, a glam
jazz rock missionary unit discover that they're the ones in crucial need of
conversion, and pull up their square roots. Thanks to an accelerated burst of continental
drift, they are able to drive home to Travis County without mishap.
No animals were physically harmed during the making of this album (however, The Young Mothers accept no responsibility for any psychological damage to livestock). And, while initially Austin-centric, it seems likely that with this album The Young Mothers have created an intercontinental ballistic infiltration unit capable of taking many unwitting ears hostage. Their campaign of motherly love has begun, and a mother's work is never done. Keep your ears open.