Hear Here In this ritual, the 7-inch single becomes a talisman. Each side—A or B—carved not just into wax, but psyche. A quick transmission from two corners of a very English abyss:
🕳️ The Fall Scratched in wet concrete, scrawled on the walls of Salford bathrooms, pub ashtrays still warm. These singles are runes of anti-charisma, their spells cast through repetition, collapse, and the gnawing rhythm of bureaucracy turned ballistic.
“Bingo Master’s Breakout” is a prayer for the permanently overlooked.
“It’s the New Thing” mocks progress as a dog chasing its own severed tail.
“Fiery Jack” is a folk demon in brogues, pissing on punk orthodoxy. These aren't songs. They’re sigils for surviving the office, the dole, the void.
🔥 Venom Forged in Newcastle sweat, surrounded by rusted scaffolds and goat blood. Venom's 7-inches are actual black magic, cloaked in pulp horror and biker mysticism.
“Die Hard” isn't about death—it's about the refusal to vanish.
“Acid Queen” is the sound of Sabbath desecrated at a drag race.
“7 Gates of Hell” is a postal code scrawled on Lucifer’s mixtape. These are power medallions for the dirtbag soul, each etched groove a rite of sonic invocation.
Together: One band defaces the mundane with surrealist dread. The other embraces the profane with glee. Both believe in art as spellwork, music as mutiny. And both wear Northern grime as their badge and their shield.
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