Bathory

After diving into Venom’s Welcome to Hell, the next logical descent was black metal itself. Naturally, that led straight to Bathory. And once you open that door, well—there’s no unseeing what’s on the other side.

Black metal is usually mapped out in waves.

The first wave was Venom, Hellhammer, Bathory, Mercyful Fate—bands that flirted with chaos through lo-fi production, screeching vocals, stage names, and Satanic posturing. Not yet the black metal we know today, but they laid the jagged foundations.

The second wave? That’s where the corpse paint hardens. The Norwegian scene took it to the extreme: Mayhem, Burzum, Darkthrone, Emperor, Immortal. Gone were the winks and theatricality—this was pure nihilism. A movement that came with real-world violence: church burnings, murder, and a philosophy that rejected accessibility in every form. Black metal wasn’t just underground. It wanted to be impenetrable.

By the mid-90s, a third wave emerged—bands pushing boundaries with orchestration, synths, and genre fusion. This caused an identity crisis in the scene. Some embraced the shift. Others screamed sellout.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Right now, I’m staying with the roots—and one of the sharpest, bloodiest roots in the ground is Bathory.

Bathory was formed in 1983 by Thomas Börje Forsberg, better known by the name that still echoes through the genre: Quorthon.

The band name? Controversial from the start. Quorthon claimed it came from visiting the London Dungeon and learning about Elizabeth Báthory. Original drummer Jonas Åkerlund insisted they stole it from the Venom track Countess Bathory. Either way—perfect branding for something that sounded like it clawed itself out of a crypt.

Quorthon distanced himself from Venom publicly, but the influence is audible. Still, where Venom were theatrical and tongue-in-cheek, Bathory felt like a serious threat. The snarls were deeper. The sound, filthier. The intent, unmistakably darker.

Not quite the shrieking you'd hear later in Norway, but a snarling, gurgling, growling wall of sound that redefined “inhuman.” His voice didn’t imitate evil. It sounded evil.

The album itself is short. Brutal. Relentless.

Not technical. Not refined.

Just pure intent, set to punk-inflected drumming and viciously simple riffs.

Bathory’s first full-length came off the back of two compilation tracks that exploded with underground interest. For the album, Quorthon brought in Rickard Bergman on bass and Stefan Larsson on drums—both with punk backgrounds. That DNA still pulses through the record: fast, stripped-down, snarling.

It’s not an album of standout moments—at least not at first. It’s a wall. An atmosphere. You don’t listen to it so much as acclimate to it.

But then it hits.

And when it does, it sticks.

My favourites so far:

Reaper – That riff. That moment Quorthon snarls “I am the Reapeeeeeeer.” It’s ridiculous and glorious and absolutely unforgettable.

Necromansy, Raise the Dead – Filthy, fast, feral.

It took a few listens, but Bathory crawled under my skin. It’s not an easy album. It’s not meant to be. But the more time you give it, the more it reveals its teeth.

Quorthon stopped playing live after 1985.

From 1997 onward, he was Bathory. No other band members. No tour cycle. Just a man, his riffs, and a growing myth.

He dodged the press. Deliberately scattered misinformation. Cultivated mystery like a weapon.

And it worked.

Bathory wasn’t just a band—it became a presence.

That secrecy, the rawness, the absolute unwillingness to play the industry game—it all amplified the music.

In a time where everything is online and over-explained, Bathory still feels untouchable.

Bathory’s first four albums defined the sound that black metal would worship and warp in the years to come. But Quorthon wasn’t finished.

In 1990, with Hammerheart, he pivoted into Viking metal and birthed an entire new subgenre—one I’ll be exploring later.

For now?

This debut is enough.

A lo-fi apocalypse. A declaration. A snarl that never fades.

Quorthon died in 2004, at 38. But what he left behind still infects everything black metal touches.

And for me—it feels like I am starting to peer into the void. And it’s whispering back.