Along with friends and fellow psychedelic wayfarers Black Dice, Animal Collective is no stranger to journalistic hyperbole. But for a moment, disregard the wisdom of Flavor Flav. In this case, the hype may be worth believing. Bridging the gaps previously separating ’60s acid folk, laptop glitch and 21st century delirium, the Collective’s early releases unveiled a beguilingly twisted voice at the cusp of a wonderfully skewed discovery. Sung Tongs is the sound of that unfolding, parceling out the group’s idiosyncratic acid dementia, elated experimentalism and sun-scorched tunefulness in equal measure. It’s the sound of contorted incantations and unhinged shamanistic therapy, the restless, searching yang to electronic folkster Greg Davis’ restrained folksy yin. It is the sound of autarkic voices doing their best to crack the grid, destined to scare some and rudely awaken others. Sung Tongs is the sound of a new kind of Cosmic American music, and it’s alive all around you.