Psychedelic rock. Two words which strike fear in the heart of anyone with a punk mentality. Spinning synthesisers, mega organs, and five hour light shows which make orphaned polar bears cry should be kept indefinitely rendered in the BBC vaults– only allowed out for the Stuart Maconie 6Music show no one listens to. OK, The Flaming Lips are allowed, because they’re The Flaming Lips and perfect. Besides, there are always exceptions: even naff ’90s soap Eldorado had a cool character.

So what place is there for Parisian duo Yeti Lane in an instantly gratified, 140-character modern culture? Why spend a day at the zoo, when there’s a meme of a wet sloth hanging from a clothes horse? Well, as any psych fan, or veteran acid wizard, will tell you, “There’s a war going on maan”, and nowadays it’s between the likes of Muse, who’ve adopted the pomposity of psych and privatised it for Cameron’s middle England, and Yeti Lane’s transcendental second disc The Echo Show.

In war sacrifices need to be made, and if that means enduring The Echo Show’s eight minute bleep trip ‘Analogue Wheel’ then so be it. But like a fat man giving up pies for lent, the results are worth it: J Spaceman’s sleepy-dust flutters around a galactic soup, waiting to be propelled by Broadcast drums towards an explosion of tremolo and Wakeman virtuosity. As it builds momentum Yeti Lane’s architects, Ben Peng and Charlie Boyer, become a battalion of repetitively maturing sequencers, pushing themselves beyond the event horizon of mere pyschedelia and into electro orchestration.

To say The Echo Show’s opening is epic is an understatement, yet despite its widdly synth meanderings a melodic song structure, rooted in a traditional indie dogma, is audible. This comes to the fore during ‘Logic Winds’ which is Grandaddy doing Doves, and ‘Strange Call’- The La’s covered by… er… Grandaddy by any other name. The explosiveness of ‘Analogue Wheel’ has dissipated but the wondrous space-gaze remains. It bravely takes on drone titans Earth or Bardo Pond with the ethereal trudge of ‘Faded Spectrum’, a track which is far removed from the sprightly sparkle of anything from their self-titled debut album, reliant instead on tectonic distortion.

There’s an undeniable shoegazy edge to The Echo Show, but one sharpened by inspired musical layering rather than an effects array. This has allowed the musicianship that was evident on their debut to grow into a masterful display of sonic capabilities, rarely heard in such an accessible manner. You don’t need to be a psychedelic drone musicologist to enjoy The Echo Show, you just need headphones, an armchair and Beagle 2 as a foot stool.

And, unfortunately, this is The Echo Show’s problem. To really appreciate it time needs to be invested: it’s not a record for on the go, and merely having it on in the background causes it to fade into the ether. On a casual listen, it reaches the end before you realise it, partly because it feels incomplete. There are 13 tracks yet four of these are interludes, so with nine “full” tracks it’s more of a mini album than a sonic masterpiece. The magnificence of these songs, however, make earthly follies such as time and numbers seem irrelevant.