The Fuzztones

You don’t walk into a Fuzztones 40th anniversary gig sober in spirit — you stumble in, brain already humming with distortion, clutching a tall beer and some vague idea that tonight might rattle your spine into a different alignment. And on October 17th at Valencia’s 16 Toneladas, the gods of garage rock did not disappoint. They came bearing fuzz pedals, Farfisa organs, black shades and the unmistakable musk of four decades’ worth of sonic sacrilege.

The night cracked open with The Smoggers, Spain’s own snarling emissaries of trash-beat bliss, and they didn’t so much open the show as set it on fire. Clad in the usual black, these Andalusian freakbeat evangelists spat out tight, vicious little garage anthems like they were hurling molotovs at the altar of polished pop. You could practically feel the ghosts of The Sonics and The Seeds grinning down in approval. The crowd — a gloriously ragtag brigade of old punks, new mutants, and leathered-up lifers — was instantly on board. You didn't need to know the lyrics. You just needed to move. They were the primer, the invocation, then came the sermon - the Fuzztones took the stage.

Rudi strode into the lights like a man still possessed by the same garage demons he summoned back in 1985. And oh yes — they were here to play Lysergic Emanations in full. Every track. No apologies. No modern reworkings. Just the same snarling, reverb-dripping manifesto that punched a hole in the underground 40 years ago and never patched it up.

From the first lurching notes of “1-2-5,” the room ignited. This wasn't some sleepy nostalgia act dragging out their classics like dusty museum pieces. This was the real deal — alive, wet with sweat, and loud enough to sandblast the enamel off your teeth.

"Gotta Get Some" hit like a junkie epiphany — wild-eyed, dirty, glorious. "Cinderella" sent shockwaves through the crowd, some of whom clearly hadn’t danced that hard since the Reagan administration. And when they launched into “Ward 81”, it didn’t just land — it detonated. Somewhere between the fuzz organ squalls and the rattletrap drums, time folded in on itself. We weren’t in 2025 anymore — we were in a perpetual, howling Now. A Now where leather jackets never age and rock and roll never dies.

The band was tight — alarmingly tight, like they'd been cryogenically frozen in 1986 and defrosted just for this tour. Every riff had bite. Every drum hit was a punch to the chest. That trademark snarl — equal parts menace and glee — cut through the mix like a chainsaw dipped in glitter.

The encore? Oh, there was one. After flattening the room with the entirety of Lysergic Emanations, they threw in a couple rarities and covers for good measure, just in case anyone still had working legs. “She’s Wicked”? Of course. “Bad News Travels Fast”? Like a bullet. Hell, someone threw their bra. Or maybe it was a scarf. Who cares. It was holy.

By the end, people were dazed — wrecked and smiling. Ears ringing. Eyes glowing. A girl in the front row was crying, a guy at the bar was howling like a dog. Nobody wanted it to end, but all good rituals do.

Tongiht was a full-body exorcism - a sacrament of sweat, distortion, and defiant survival. Forty years in, The Fuzztones aren't just still standing — they're still dangerous. And The Smoggers? They’re carrying the torch forward, lighting new fires with old gasoline.

Words and photos: Rhyan Paul