Lead Throat / Guitar
Screams like the rent is due and plays like the strings owe him money. First one in the pit, last one out of the basement.
Recorded in a basement ⛧ mixed by rats ⛧ blessed by the goat
Four guitars tuned to rot. One lead throat, three backing growls. No drummer, no bassist, no mercy — just green fire, mold, and neighbors who pray for silence.
⛧
The gospel
Rot. Riffs. Repeat.
Rape Goblins is what happens when nobody in the room ever says “turn it down.” No label. No plan. No talent wasted on subtlety. Just four goblins in a moldy basement, summoning ugly riffs until something evil sticks to the tape — then playing it louder.
The coven
All guitars. No survivors.
Guitar / Backing Growls
Riffs that crawl instead of shine. Growls in frequencies that upset dogs, landlords, and at least one priest.
Guitar / Backing Growls
Rhythm like a collapsing crypt. Delivers the graveyard accents and roughly half of the total vocal damage.
Guitar / Backing Growls
The fourth blade. When a song falls apart, he makes sure it falls apart louder.
The offerings
Demo crypt
Rough takes and first mixes, dragged out of the rehearsal room before anyone could polish them. Recorded on whatever was lying around. Mixed at 3 a.m. Mastered by absolutely no one.
Untitled
Untitled II
Untitled III
Untitled IIII
Untitled V
The iconography
Visions from the pit.
The summoning
Summon us.
Riff traders, weird collaborators, lost souls with a spare amp: scream into the void below. We answer whenever the basement gets Wi-Fi. Keep it short. Keep it heavy.