Raajmahal's second LP. Recorded in the winter of 2012/2013 in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Carla Baker (Flower Orgy, Baba Yaga) -- guitar, harmonium, and vocals; Pat Murano (Decimus, NNCK, Malkuth, etc.) -- guitar/synth; with vocal harmony assistance by Amanda Bristow (Baba Yaga) and flute by Jen Storch. Here are a few thought-experiments to consider while listening to the newest LP on Kelippah Records by the band Raajmahal: You are a tourist in an exotic and faraway land where you have attended a daily religious ceremony that includes a long section of chanting. You've been settled into a corner of the room where the sound of the multitude of voices is reflecting and fluttering around your head. Deep into the ceremony, and unbeknownst to the other people attending, you have a major stroke. In the minutes before you lose consciousness, your brain begins to process the sounds in the room differently. The voices are now distant, haunting, some footfalls echo like giant drums, and the rushing in your ears almost sounds like a strange guitar. Another possibility: you have spent the evening reveling with a good friend, imbibing in all manner of illicit elixirs. As the shades of evening's blue shift to the deep purples of late night, your friend has some sort of episode. Whether brought on by the recent intake or stemming from natural causes is not relevant. It is obvious that a doctor is needed, and quickly. You are fumbling with your mobile phone, trying to make heads or tails of all the strange symbols which you are sure are situated where the numerals used to be on the keypad. A small crowd has formed around you seeming from thin air and before you can process what the group is saying, an ambulance has arrived. The lights and your generally tweaked physiology are disorientating, but somehow you manage to find you way into the back of the vehicle with your friend. As you speed away a second wave of induced euphoria overtakes you, blending dangerously with your residual dread and confusion of the last few minutes. You begin to giggle, perhaps inappropriately, and are struck by how strange the music coming from the radio in the front of the vehicle sounds, blending with the sirens from outside the windows. The music is foggy, methodically floating along, but it seems to be happening too slow, like a spooling-out cassette. Next to you one of the EMTs begins to sing along but you cannot make out any words, just a haunting melody. Lastly: You are a desk-bound city worker who has not spent much time outdoors since your childhood. You have decided on a beautiful spring weekend to take a hike to the top of a mountain located in a nearby rural area accessible towards the end of the local commuter rail line. You pack your necessary provisions and get an early start on a golden, clear morning. The day is spent traversing a steep path through the dense, tree-covered hillside. You are surprised to find that no other trekkers abound on this day, and for this you are quietly happy. Slowly you leave the stifling crush of your daily city life behind and as you get higher and higher, your mind becomes clearer and more open. Lungs burning, back soaked with sweat, you finally reach the pinnacle of the trail and find a stunning perch high above the far valley. You sit there in the late afternoon sun, in what seems like perfect silence. Slowly you realize that it is not quiet at all, that there are sounds all around you. At first they are distinct, but the longer you sit and the less you focus, they begin to meld into something different. The rustling of the leaves in the trees, the insects' whine, the calls of the birds, even your own rhythmic pulse, all begin to congeal into something that you can only describe as musical. A gust of wind picks up, racing through the rocky depths below you, and you swear to yourself, as there is no one else around, that it sounds just like an ethereal voice, singing a sweet, yet melancholy melody above nature's song. Silk screened by Phil Franklin. Limited to 300 copies.