ENTER THE BLACKLIST…

York-born crossover duo Garrow Hill drags the weight of its superficial eye-candy streets and malevolent undercurrents straight to the doorstep of modern metal.

This isn’t Klique bait. It’s a ritual.

Stewart King and P.G. Branton have been marginalised, labelled, excluded, blacklisted. Condemned to remain on the fringes, looking in. Every time they’ve been told “You’re too extreme, too dark, too DIY, too niche, too ‘not what sells right now’” — it was just a red herring.

The music arrives unannounced. A low thrum twisted in existential dread. Vocals surge mid-phrase — pure, soaring, impossibly melodic — a Dickinson-wrought cascade spiralling skyward in defiance. Alternative heavy rock’s familiar ache, post-punk’s clipped pulse, the metallic aftertaste of ’90s metal — nothing you can place, yet nothing you can shake.

Somewhere in the static, between the crushing crawl of Entombed’s Clandestine and the towering, pharaoh-crowned majesty of Iron Maiden’s Powerslave, Garrow Hill charts its path. A carnival of sonic storm clouds gathers — where Bradbury’s wayward souls are reborn as anthems from the ’80s, ’90s, and beyond. You can feel it: something wicked, patient, and vast, swelling beneath the urban sprawl.

Garrow Hill doesn’t chase you down alleyways. It’s already on the playlist you didn’t make, playing at a volume just low enough to make you wonder if you imagined it.

Listen close. The city’s still talking. And it knows your name.

Join our blacklist. Our badge of honour.