THE MUTANTS
Mutants Death Cult

Ranch/Spinefarm

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Ferociously funky flipped out Finns crash land in the ice of your cocktail glass (again) like tiny iridescent germs, pupate and take over to split from the inside out in scenes reminiscent of ‘The Thing’. Insanely sane scientists in their lair unleashing the sound of bubbling chemistry labs, experiments gone wrong and creating hideous monstrosities, hula girls in huge sunglasses and tiny dresses, guys with serious ‘taches and chest hair. Jungle jazz for the urban skyscraperline, poolside perma-party panty-line perverts, ayahuasca astronauts on the cosmic calypso reef, shape-shifting, dimension straddling seers and sages, kitsch n’ tiki cool levitationeers, dwellers in fantasy fare, mad mountain mystics and gearheads melting the mambo motorways and boogaloo byways. Such tropical beach-hut boogie delights could well cause the seas to swell by melting ice caps. In the meantime slice the fruit, sip on this and slip into a hot spa. Slipping into seventies swimsuit entirely optional.
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-Stu Gibson