Standing on the ledge of Boston's 52-story Prudential Tower, the view is astounding. It's also a bit windy so wear a safety harness or hold on to something. One of the most dense centers of learning is directly ahead. The amount of new scientific knowledge discovered every day at MIT is astounding and difficult to grasp without being immersed in the culture of the institution. The same goes for the New York-based Animal Collective. Since showing up in 2000, their schizophrenic, psychedelic approach to music has intrigued listeners and critics. Nobody can pigeonhole them. Nobody should even try.

"Sung Tongs" is the second album officially released under the Animal Collective moniker. Immersed in a mad house, it leans toward structure while staying firmly planted in insanity. Almost every song is based around an acoustic guitar, but don't be fooled: this is not a folk record. Band members Panda Bear, Deacon, Geologist, and Avey Tare have either done a lot of acid (likely) or are from another planet (more likely). Running the gambit between manic and sedated, "Sung Tongs" features only Panda Bear and Avey Tare, who are rooted in padded walls and rooms doused with Baker's Pink. Swallow some lithium, lie down on the psychiatrist's couch, and press play.

Meet Charlie. Charlie's been hearing voices since 1985, the year he turned 13 and the year his mother hung herself from a million dollar chandelier. His obsession with "The Wizard of Oz" churned out the tribal thumping of "We Tigers." There's a quality to this song that is reminiscent of the scene where Dorothy and her new friends are repeating, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!" Be scared, but admire the beautiful surroundings. All those voices pounding the walls of Charlie's skull are finally released, each one playing an integral role in the mood of this song. High-pitched squeals and whispered chants create a intricately choreographed choir of the criminally insane. It's impossible to discern any actual words outside of "Tiger! Tiger! Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!" but in a chaotic landscape like this, words are of little importance.

"Kids On Holiday" is a neo-psychedelic nightmare. Slowed samples, which are commonplace throughout the record, open this track with disorienting confusion. Intermittent acoustic guitar strums hint at a semblance of framework, eventually working their way into a single-chord drone. This is the foundation for a track that takes Sgt. Pepper-era Beatles and punches it in the stomach. Charlie insists these ramblings are his great masterwork. "It's my ticket out of here, padre," he says with a hint of confidence. Musically, the track does little. Vocally, though, it is hypnotizing. A constant, distorted pulse provides a head-bobbing beat while helping lull the listener into a trance. "So you're feeling sleepy," they tease as maniacal cackling rises up in the background. "But there's no need to worry, this is just a vacation," they assure. In this song, The Animal Collective have sound tracked the lunatic's descent into madness. It's disconcerting, but brilliant in delivery and approach. While one voice screams "Holiday!" the other mimics this craziness with a reserved assertion that this is just "a holiday full of fun." This dichotomy perfectly manifests the schizophrenic mind. It's ingenious.

"There's a place I know where we can go," Charlie explains on "Good Lovin' Outside." He longs for a walk through Golden Gate Park at dusk. To see San Francisco Bay one more time would be a dream, since these confines don't offer much in the way of a view. Crows flying overhead, squawking like a flock of mad scientists, accent the disjointed acoustic strums the Collective lay down. For a song that lacks any real structure, it flows remarkably well.

Histrionics galore lace the first two tracks, "Leaf Yard" and "Who Could Win a Rabbit." The latter is one of the finest and catchiest songs released this year. Booming toms provide a backbone while airy acoustic instruments attempt cohesion in this train wreck. At Charlie's most lucid moments, he's endearing and sweet. Nobody could imagine this broken, middle-aged man to be a cold-blooded killer. "Been working to put on good habits. Sometimes I can't find my good habits," he confesses on the chorus. Knife chopping percussion hits like an uppercut on the second verse, while Avey Tare and Panda Bear weave an impenetrable web of happy faces, bright rainbows, and LSD hallucinations. "Rabbit or a habit, habit or a riddle?" Charlie asks as he fades into lunacy. "Leaf Yard," on the other hand, is the anthem for this sterile white cement block palace. "This house is sad," it begins. A disjointed chorus of ooohs, aaahs, and eh-eh-ehs is like the entire cast of patients in two, parallel rows, lining the entrance of this asylum, wide-eyed and grinning, welcoming the incoming condemned. As The Collective fall into a whimpering "Meow" in a long, drawn-out fashion, a subtler, almost unintelligible voice mockingly screeches "Kitties!" in the background. The whole track feels more like a number from a musical than one might anticipate; baritone and tenor vocals matched with this melodramatic music would make Broadway proud. This ability to dramatize music that is, at its base, simple is why the Animal Collective are one of the most original, entertaining acts around. Enter these locked, metal doors with caution, and don't expect to leave in the same frame of mind.

The Animal Collective is at the forefront of the so-called psych/folk movement, and they continue pushing concepts that are so far off the beaten path that they?re almost unrecognizable. Few people can do what Avey Tare and Panda Bear have done on "Sung Tongs." It's an atmospheric masterpiece that skirts the line between chaos and order. Producing music that fuses so many styles into something completely original is a colossal talent. Perhaps the best summation for "Sung Tongs" comes from The Animal Collective themselves. On the stunning "Winter's Love," the duo offers two sides of the same coin. Early on, the track is mostly instrumental and bounces around in nostalgia. It seems like something that would have been heard on AM radio in the '40s, but then it stops completely. When it starts again, the song picks up in typical Animal Collective fashion. A rapidly strummed acoustic guitar takes over while the wailing voices return. Eventually, focus is injected and we're left with an ode to the cruelest, but most sincere of all seasons: winter. Why choose winter? Because this band believes that taking the easy route is a cop-out; they believe in going all the way or not going at all. Their music embodies that aesthetic. "I love this life in winter time," they begin, as they personify the melancholy love winter showers on her admirers. Be glad they love this life, be glad they love doing it the hard way, and be glad that insane asylums are places rich in culture, because the fruit of their labor is impressive and enriching. Welcome to the album of the year.ere, padre," he says with a hint of confidence. Musically, the track does little. Vocally, though, it is hypnotizing. A constant, distorted pulse provides a head-bobbing beat while helping lull the listener into a trance. "So you're feeling sleepy," they tease as maniacal cackling rises up in the background. "But there's no need to worry, this is just a vacation," they assure. In this song, The Animal Collective have sound tracked the lunatic's descent into madness. It's disconcerting, but brilliant in delivery and approach. While one voice screams "Holiday!" the other mimics this craziness with a reserved assertion that this is just "a holiday full of fun." This dichotomy perfectly manifests the schizophrenic mind. It's ingenious.

"There's a place I know where we can go," Charlie explains on "Good Lovin' Outside." He longs for a walk through Golden Gate Park at dusk. To see San Francisco Bay one more time would be a dream, since these confines don't offer much in the way of a view. Crows flying overhead, squawking like a flock of mad scientists, accent the disjointed acoustic strums the Collective lay down. For a song that lacks any real structure, it flows remarkably well.

Histrionics galore lace the first two tracks, "Leaf Yard" and "Who Could Win a Rabbit." The latter is one of the finest and catchiest songs released this year. Booming toms provide a backbone while airy acoustic instruments attempt cohesion in this train wreck. At Charlie's most lucid moments, he's endearing and sweet. Nobody could imagine this broken, middle-aged man to be a cold-blooded killer. "Been working to put on good habits. Sometimes I can't find my good habits," he confesses on the chorus. Knife chopping percussion hits like an uppercut on the second verse, while Avey Tare and Panda Bear weave an impenetrable web of happy faces, bright rainbows, and LSD hallucinations. "Rabbit or a habit, habit or a riddle?" Charlie asks as he fades into lunacy. "Leaf Yard," on the other hand, is the anthem for this sterile white cement block palace. "This house is sad," it begins. A disjointed chorus of ooohs, aaahs, and eh-eh-ehs is like the entire cast of patients in two, parallel rows, lining the entrance of this asylum, wide-eyed and grinning, welcoming the incoming condemned. As The Collective fall into a whimpering "Meow" in a long, drawn-out fashion, a subtler, almost unintelligible voice mockingly screeches "Kitties!" in the background. The whole track feels more like a number from a musical than one might anticipate; baritone and tenor vocals matched with this melodramatic music would make Broadway proud. This ability to dramatize music that is, at its base, simple is why the Animal Collective are one of the most original, entertaining acts around. Enter these locked, metal doors with caution, and don't expect to leave in the same frame of mind.

The Animal Collective is at the forefront of the so-called psych/folk movement, and they continue pushing concepts that are so far off the beaten path that they?re almost unrecognizable. Few people can do what Avey Tare and Panda Bear have done on "Sung Tongs." It's an atmospheric masterpiece that skirts the line between chaos and order. Producing music that fuses so many styles into something completely original is a colossal talent. Perhaps the best summation for "Sung Tongs" comes from The Animal Collective themselves. On the stunning "Winter's Love," the duo offers two sides of the same coin. Early on, the track is mostly instrumental and bounces around in nostalgia. It seems like something that would have been heard on AM radio in the '40s, but then it stops completely. When it starts again, the song picks up in typical Animal Collective fashion. A rapidly strummed acoustic guitar takes over while the wailing voices return. Eventually, focus is injected and we're left with an ode to the cruelest, but most sincere of all seasons: winter. Why choose winter? Because this band believes that taking the easy route is a cop-out; they believe in going all the way or not going at all. Their music embodies that aesthetic. "I love this life in winter time," they begin, as they personify the melancholy love winter showers on her admirers. Be glad they love this life, be glad they love doing it the hard way, and be glad that insane asylums are places rich in culture, because the fruit of their labor is impressive and enriching. Welcome to the album of the year. 10/10 -- Brad Rose (25 May, 2005)