Beer koozies. Dog-sitting for an hour in the park. A last minute death row pardon. King Tuff's unshaded, sweatstained rock is back and in full effect on "Eyes Of The Muse." His distinct appeal pours out like suspicious fumes from inside a vegetable oil-powered van, or the drunks arm-in arm from friendliest motorcycle saloon ever. That doesn't change here. He still has the demeanour of how dads hope they'll feel when they catch Van Halen on classic rock radio: obscene riffage blasting out of weathered amplifiers with Hanna-Barbera vocals. Either you'll like it or won't, but there's a strong sense he'll smile in your face regardless.