Here it is.
A psychedelic bubblegum rush of spaced out pupil widening summer of love acid trips set to music.
A garage-psyche masterpiece of fuzzed out tooth rotting sugar pop.
If the thought of a garage punk version of The Flaming Lips with a hard on for Marc Bolan ticks a few of your boxes then King Tuff are the one stop shop for all your needs right now.
Damn, there’s even a song that sounds like Bob Dylan found a sense of humour down the back of a Hanna-Barbera casting couch.
Press play on this little beauty and its instant sunshine filling your head.
From start to finish it sounds like a far out fantasy stereotype of the sixties filtered through the belief that it’s possible that nothing was every as good again.
Even when Chuck Manson’s Creepy Crawl (Good name for a band) gets a mention the smile doesn’t slip from King Tuffs lips.
The sign of a good album is when you click on play, or drop the needle at the start again, as soon as it finishes, and this is one of those little darlings.
Next stop King Tuffs debut. I’m coming for you.