Prince Rama’s new album, Shadow Temple, conjures Dionysian images of a hidden world of mystic revelers: a cultist’s temple, perhaps tucked neatly into an Indiana Jone’s flick, where acolytes communicate to astral devas through song and dance.  And just in case you think I am trying to be florid, I use the term Dionysian in the strictest sense.  The music of Prince Rama seems designed to dismantle ego and inhibition, pushing the listener up against the abyss of pure consciousness and their own shadow-selves.  Let’s not forget that this is the band that used to hand out noise-makers to the audience and encourage yoga practice during their sets.  Rama represents the vanguard of the new-age freak-core of psychedelic music.

I’ll admit that I started listening to Prince Rama because they were the new, in vogue group.  That’s even more the case now that the band has been added to the Paw Tracks Record Label and had their album produced by indie rock demiurges Avey Tare and Deakin.  With all the buzz that Prince Rama has been generating recently, one might easily figure these dharma punks for crossover glory.  Regardless of their Animal Collective backing though, it’s still hard to sell six minute tracks reworking traditional Hindu chants using the standard automatic consumption model.

Whatever the future has in store for Prince Rama, they at least have another stunner of an album to bank their reputation on.  Perhaps it is the expert production assistance, but the sound of ST has been cleaned up significantly from previous full length, Zetland.  The tribal toms of Imai Larson cut through the brouillard of reverbed vocals and funhouse synths.  Meanwhile, sister Taraka’s siren voice, cast with a sort of thematic quality somewhere between Joanna Newsom and Grace Slick, echoes in deep textural pools.  Sample master Michael Collin’s own basso profundo intonations recall Buddhist throat singing as they provide the cavernous undergirding to several tracks.

Take for example the syllabic patter, sounding almost like a gauche imitation of a Polynesian deity, that punctuates the opening to the album’s single “Lightning Fossil”.  The track itself is one of the few on the album where Taraka Larson’s lyrics, regrettably absent for most of the rest of ST, are not only present, but can actually be understood.  The hook, “You were born in the breath of danger,” rings clear before a staccato cowbell break down ushers the track into its weirded-out second half. From there, more syllable play and tin-organ synth stepping lead to broken wailing near the end, which makes one feel as if they are on a boat amidst heavy seas.  With accompanying cymbal clashes, perhaps signaling wave crests, the threat of being capsized and drowned in sound is very real.

Runner-up track “Thunderdrums,” offers a sufficiently “song-y” beginning complete with  neat guitar phrasing and the feeling of being on solid ground.  Before long, however, Prince Rama pulls the rug out, and the song disintegrates into a drum and synth raga as Taraka alternates between ululating and stoically reciting incantations.  The last minute is a sample driven outro pairing night-time jungle calls with deep-space knob twisting.

Overall, the album is more economical than past Prince Rama outings.  The songs have a more linear structure and spend less time in abstract experimentation.  Gone are the eight minute, build up and break down sagas like “Son of Bees.”  Also, with just eight tracks on Shadow Temple, the album is very lean and has only minor redundancy on tracks like “Satt Nam,” and opener “Om Mane Padme Hum” – more of a tantric aperitif than a true album opener anyway.

Ultimately, Shadow Temple is a record that transcends the buzz and is one I highly recommend. Anyone can enjoy this album, from a dyed in the wool fan or merely a first degree novice in the order of Rama-dom.