From the Coop is an album by guitarist Buckethead, consisting of songs off the demo tapes that Buckethead recorded when he was younger.
According to Jas Obrecht:
It's all music recorded in 1988. Basically, Buckethead made me three demo tapes that year, and when I was searching for the tapes of what became Acoustic Shards I rediscovered these three demo cassettes in a box of interview tapes. They are his earliest recordings, aside from a rehearsal or two, but it's all there -- the astounding technique, the lyrical beauty, the incredible shredding and popping. He was working with one of those small portable multi-track recorders, like a Tascam Portastudio, and a drum machine, but his playing is so clearly head-and-shoulders above what others were doing in 1988.
The announcement of the release of the CD was given in Buckethead.tk, a fan board.In this page the members could get a discount at the time of purchasing the CD 3 days before the release of the CD.
In the CD booklet, Jas has included reproductions of Buckethead's handwriting from the 1988 cassettes.
Jas also states that:
I can't find anything pre-1991 in the Buckethead discographies, so I am hoping Buckethead fans will view it the same way as a Beatles fan would view a CD's worth of decent-sounding Beatles tracks from 1959, or some never-heard Eddie Van Halen from 1975.
The album artwork was drawn by Buckethead and shows himself when he was young in a ghostly coop.
Jas Obrecht stated that the CD would come with the first Buckethead bio taken in the year 1989 and says:
One day last summer a music journalist from California was on assigment in the Arkansas delta. Searchng for an obscure blues artist along rural backroads, he lost his way and pulled into a long-abandoned drive-in theater. There in the distance, from a ramshackle chicken coop beneath mega-powerful power lines, he heard incredible shread guitar. He behenld a towering creature clutching a guitar. A frakish white mask hid his face, a chicken bucket covered his head. His only companions were his guitar, a battered amp with a cord rigged straight to the top of the power line, and a few clucking buddies. Any attempts to communicate with him were answered by a motionless blank stare, senseless riffing, or the unearthly clawing motions of his filthy arms.
Somewhat disturbed by this event, the journalist turned to leave. Suddenly the crature in the coop launched into a mind-numbing display of guitar gymnastics. Terrifying two-handed arpeggios careened into blistering solos.
Savage shred-runs segued into sublime quotes from Disney flicks. After a squealing finale of feedback, he threw down the guitar, waved his arm, and lurched out the door. He moved helter skelter across the field and pointed exitedly to a hole in the back wall of the drive-in.
Well, the rest in history.