The Animal Collective's Here Comes the Indian recalls that golden age of the "John Peel Band," where the venerable British DJ would flood London with kinetic seven-inch singles of no little oddity. The band takes lopsided indie rock à la Truman's Water, strips it of any remaining masculinity, quintuples the quirkiness, and records it through what sounds like tin cans and twine. It's a crude folk-pop-rock mash-up subjected to house-of-mirrors distortion and deeply unsettling noise. These bleakly pathetic little songs form the crooked backbone of the record. Bookending them, however, are two epic tracks of ebbing and flowing tidal action, wherein cats bay at the moon, cymbals are licked, strings pop, reel-to-reel tapes splutter, guitars squeal and humans squeal and the Smurfs sing "Kumbaya." You could call it creepy and twee (especially since these are grown men calling themselves things like Panda Bear and Geologist), and you'd be right. But Here Comes the Indian also makes for brilliant, playground seesaw sickness and uneasy listening 'round the old campfire.