Tiña deal in the confusing grey areas between pleasure and pain, where horror and humour are “two sides of the same coin”, and where wonky, psych-flecked pop is as good a vehicle to get out your woes as any. The reality as we meet them at Speedy Wunderground’s second studio HQ in Streatham - the place where they recently recorded said album at the behest of label boss Dan Carey, who picked the group to become the singles label’s first full-length release - is that they are, like many people, a combination of both. On the other, they’re a band explicitly born out of a breakdown, with tracks that regularly deal in images of suicide and despair, and a just-released LP called - somewhat ironically - ‘Positive Mental Health Music’. On one side, they’re a riot of pink and playfulness - a group whose leader is rarely seen on stage without his trusty cowboy hat, and whose aim, they claim, is to create a “pink party” for listeners to lose themselves in. It’s an unusual analogy, but in many ways Tiña - the south London outfit fronted by Josh, and completed by bassist Adam Cartwright, guitarist Ollie Lester, keyboardist Calum Armstrong and drummer George Rhys Davies - are very much the sound of a surreal, magical world plucked out the bottom of a tear-filled bin. “There’s a humour in the surrealness of the tragedy.” So then he starts creating a world at the bottom of the bin,” relays Joshua Loftin. “There’s this bit in a Richard Brautigan book called Sombrero Fallout, where he’s crying into a bin because he and his girlfriend have broken up, and he cries for so long that he loses his perception of time and it feels like he’s been crying into this bin forever.
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