Gregor Kocijančič, Fejzo Košir and Mina Fina all met in Panama City on independent journeys in quest of the enchanted skull of a sudamerican indian boyprince. In a cantina at the foot of a sacred mountain they laughed and laughed and they agreed to chip in for the services of a local shaman whose medicine might reveal the secret location of their quarry. For a bottle of aguardiente and a box of prepaid envelopes, he put them in a trance as they lay on rough reed blankets surrounding a pathetic little fire near his thatched hut on the outskirts of town. Naturally, each of the future members of YGT had the treacherous hope that the portal of insight would open in his/her head alone, thanks to the arcane botanicals. Their connivance proved fortuitous, however, as the shaman they had enlisted was none other than Dionysus in disguise. ‘The liberator’ aka Eleutherios unbeknownst to these selfish crusaders had enlisted them in a plan to join forces and demonstrate for captive audiences the world over the radiant nexus of our inter-sex eroticomusical fixations through a music that invites listeners to come back to the dream. He, Dionysus, wrapped the dreamers up in an invisible shawl that would keep them bound together forever as a quadric chimaera rolling around the world in a tumbleweed of mischief and clairvoyance and smooth future beats couched in sleek, rippling post-pop atomizations. YGT, mirabile dictu, whelped in the asparagus fields of Ljubljana, jam in a bomb shelter under a church.