There might not be much Mexican music hitting our embattled, crumbling shores, but when it does, it's always pretty mindblowing – Carlos Santana, for example. Husband (Alberto González) and wife (Lorena Quintanilla) psych-rockers Lorelle Meets The Obsolete, from Ensenada/Guadalajara, aren't going to alter that perception. Chuck away any notions of gargantuan sombreros and portly moustachioed Mariachi troubadours, bandoliers filled with salsa in tow – this is a unique, narcotic elixir that obliterates assumptions.

Far from being jangly, or light, or folk, Lorelle Meets The Obsolete's sound is more akin to Sonic Youth. They use '70s prog and psychedelic influences, and superglue those to shoegaze, intangible, avante-garde post-punk and stoner-rock for parched deserts – it's wild noise, removed from humanity until a warped, distorted shell. Texturally, it's more exciting that most efforts you'll have heard in eons – they blend layers like callous post-rockers, stacking sheets of hallucinogenic guitars, and disregarding structure, morph slowly into other arena as if the visualiser on iTunes made sonic.

Last year's Medicine To Cure Medicine Sickness EP impressed swathes of listeners, and produced 'What's Holding You?' arguably their most famous effort to date. Featuring hypnotic licks repeating ad infinitum like a train on LSD, they blaze through five minutes of rock-hard tuneage that Hunter S. Thompson would try to grind up and stuff up his schnozz. The fiery axe work doesn't adhere to confines of standard verse-chorus-verse patterns, rather more contentedly flitting from '90s grazed-knee loud to eye-of-hurricane quiet. It's one hefty dollop of psych guitar solos that all these '70s revivalist kids (bar Temples, whose formula is spot-on) need to have a good listen to.

Sluggish spaghetti-Western-OST mimic 'Dead Leaves' is huge. With swaggering half-time percussion and guitars wah-wah-ed so heavily they sound like they're drowning, Lorena and Alberto pulverise your consciousness. 'Sealed Scene', screaming away with rampaging punk riffs (and some nuanced 'Mirsirlou' surf-punk scales), is similarly brain-melty. It doesn't overtly nuke your grey walnut, but rather, it puts your melon in a microwave for twenty minutes. It's white-hot, bubbling and drips out your facial crevices. Primarily, that's LMTO's charm – they're experts at this psych-rock business, so much so that it's hard to believe that it's contemporary and not just a long-lost gem from the golden years of the genre some few decades past.

Though the pair are adept at forming these kinds of id-tangling aural daggers, it's not an unlovable tone. In fact, it's easy to become deeply enamoured with the music are spinning. It's addictive and bewitching, capable of transporting you far and away from reality's miserable realness. It's pure escapism. By way of torrid six-stringers, afflicted by copious pedalboarding, and a brook of melodic-but-haunting vocals, they plonk you into a different land. Where you end up may be entirely random, and probably depends on personal experiences, but they'll make your mind take a lucid vacation to somewhere.