Matt Whitehurst is my homeboy.

Before heading to India last summer (how cliched) I managed to have a listen to Psychedelic Horseshits' Acid Tape (or at least what leaked through from some obscure US blog, since it passed almost unnoticed in the UK and Old Europe) and their name glued to my mind like a big fat rat stuck to a mousetrap.

Then, as said, I went to India. (Like in the most cliched scenarios) I lost and found and lost myself again, and filled my brain with new-age-y theories and incense-flavoured psychedelic visions. I came back with a much acuter sensibility about the 'Not A-changin'' times we are living in and I did try to soothe the pain for the loss of that carefree spiritedness with music, but the Western soundscape seemed unable to offer me anything new and exciting and, above all, authentic.

Psychedelic Horseshit, the vicars of 'shitgaze', gave me my 'Tropical Vision' back.

Their efforts in striving for individuality in a music scene filled with meme -gaze bands that collapse the the blogosphere on a daily basis with their accurately studied lo-fi tunes that last to the ear and to the heart no more than the time required to download them from the hipster blog-of-the-day have paid off when the band recently signed to mighty FatCat Records (hello, fame and success!) - who've put out the likes of Animal Collective, Sigur Ros and Black Dice just to name a few.

And after 4 years of silence from Magic Flowers Droned and tons of 7" and tapes scattered around the indiespheres from the likes of Siltbreeze and wow-wow-wow Woodsist, the Columbus, OH scuzzy fuzzy mishmashers are back with a "proper" album, Laced, out on 16th May.

Mr Horseshit and Ryan Jewell are true alchemists of contemporary music, mashing all the good 'n bad crap that's filled the airwaves in the past and present decades (namely, lo-fi punk, noise, electronica, Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, break beats, good healthy pop, dance music, tribal beats) and turning it into pure gold.

Some say this album sounds more 'structuted' that the band's previous outings. Indeed the production of Laced is less schizo than Acid Tape and less abrasive than Magic Flowers Droned, still the band keeps true to themselves and delivers what, to me, is already one of the best and weirdest albums of the first half of the last year of life on planet Earth.

Digi-tribal freakeries seem to be the common thread among the tracks of Laced. The trashy-pop 'French Countryside' is the first single to be released and has already received lots of attention for its idyosincratic noise melodic mix of droney synths and fucked up beats.

With its pounding tribal rhythms paired with the heavy use of samples 'Tropical Vision' is more of a post-tropical hit, whilst 'Another Side' is a proper Dylan-esque anthem with the harmonica overlapping with fuzzy synths and uptempo drumbeats, perfect to be shouted out loud when riding on your bike through the city (the current version of the 70s folk protest songs?).

With his monotone nasal voice, Matt rants about drugs binges, homologation, boredom and discontent for our post-postmodern condition of 21th century orphans of civilisation with humorous and outspoken, yet thoughtful lyrics and is joined in this effort by mate and Times New Viking's keyboardist Beth Murphy in 'Dead on Arrival'.

The instrumental 'Automatic Writing' is a fine example of chaosmic virtual soundscape with its electronic parabolas intertwined by bleeps and bits.

But my personal favourite is the closing track, 'Making Out', a surf-pop, yet rough and fuzzy, earcandy that talks about, well, "making out in the alleys" 'cos in end, what's going to save our battered lives from the global decay we're witnessing in our schizophrenic reality, is love, isn't it?