They Couldn’t Play. They Didn’t Care. They Made History.
Some bands sneak into metal history.
Venom kicked the door off its hinges, screamed SATAN, and left scorch marks on the walls.
This band kept showing up in my research—cited again and again as one of the most influential forces in extreme metal. And when I finally listened to Welcome to Hell (1981), I got it.
Not because it was polished. Or technically impressive. Or even remotely friendly to the ears.
But because it sounded like something breaking.
On purpose.
Satan, Speed, and Zero Subtlety
Venom formed in 1978 in Newcastle, right in the middle of the NWOBHM explosion. But while others were leaning into soaring vocals and twin-guitar harmonies, Venom said, “what if we just… didn’t?”
By 1981, the classic trio had taken shape:
- Cronos (Conrad Lant) on bass and snarls
- Mantas (Jeffrey Dunn) on guitar
- Abaddon (Anthony Bray) on drums
None of them were technical wizards—and they knew it.
Didn’t care.
Wouldn’t pretend.
They didn’t want to play better.
They wanted to play louder, faster, and meaner than anything that had come before.
The result?
Welcome to Hell—an album that sounded like it had been recorded in a crypt, mixed with a crowbar, and mastered with a blood offering.
It’s Not Just Noise. It’s a Movement.
To some people, this album was just chaos.
To others? It was the spark.
Sodom’s Tom Angelripper said his band wouldn’t exist without Welcome to Hell.
James Hetfield. Lars Ulrich. Dave Mustaine. Kerry King. Mille Petrozza. Tom Araya.
All of them credit this album with showing them a new path—faster, heavier, more extreme.
And when Witching Hour hits?
You can hear thrash being born.
Satanic Panic as a Marketing Strategy
Venom didn’t invent Satanic lyrics—but they committed.
And not in a “subtle inverted cross in the background” kind of way.
More like “We named the album Welcome to Hell and opened a track with a reversed demon summoning. You good, Mum?”
The lyrics? Blasphemy, sex, drugs, and Satan—on repeat.
The covers? Baphomet, pentagrams, fire.
The vocals? Cronos growled like he’d swallowed gravel and a Necronomicon.
And while they now insist it was all for entertainment and shock value—people were terrified.
Parents panicked. Moral watchdogs lost their minds.
Which, let’s be honest, was the point.
Genre? Good Luck.
Trying to label Venom is like trying to label a thunderstorm.
They emerged from the NWOBHM era, but their sound was too muddy, too messy, too mean for that clean-cut British steel.
They weren’t punk—but they had punk’s attitude and rawness.
They weren’t thrash—yet.
They weren’t black metal—yet.
But they were all of it.
Speed. Thrash. Black. Death.
You can hear the foundation of each in Welcome to Hell.
It’s proto-everything. A glorious, unholy mess.
Loud, Ugly, and Gloriously Relentless
Like Motörhead, Venom were a power trio.
Bass-playing frontman. Riffs for days. No brakes.
But where Lemmy was sharp and swaggering, Cronos was snarling and soaked in evil.
Mantas’ riffs were simple but sticky—catchy enough to hum, somehow.
Abaddon’s drumming was like being hit by a tire iron in a thunderstorm: blunt, relentless, strangely satisfying.
And the production? Oh, it’s a disaster. A masterpiece of muddy aggression.
Black metal bands would spend the next two decades trying to recreate it.
It’s 40 Minutes of Mayhem. And I Kind of Love It.
The original release has eleven tracks. No song breaks four minutes. Most don’t even try.
There are no solos. No ballads. No mercy.
Just blast after blast of speed and filth.
There’s a punk sensibility to it all—short, sharp, and scathing.
And honestly? It works.
My personal standouts?
Welcome to Hell, obviously. But also Schizo, because sometimes you want your music to feel like it’s biting you.
Venom Today
They’re still around. Still releasing albums (the last was in 2018).
Line-up changes galore. Solo projects. Reunions. Drama.
But the legacy? Untouchable.
Welcome to Hell and Black Metal remain essential listening—especially if you want to understand where extreme metal really started.
They didn’t perfect the genres.
They just kicked open the door, threw blood on the floor, and screamed.
And somehow—everything followed.