Born of riff, fire and the heaviness of ancient and revered sacred stone, Mammoth Axe will soon be tearing the face off any venue we're allowed to destroy in the grim north of England. Formed with the rising of the blood moon, and armed with a living room recording studio and a large sack of unpaid-for narcotics, three men became brothers.

He sits at the back, shrouded in shadow and mist, barely speaks or even moves (he's usually too busy eating ridiculous takeaways), and plays the drums like a daemon possessed. He is The Slothe.
Amongst paper, tomes, scrolls and endless bowls of noodle soup, guided by the magicks of Mortal Kombat pro season re-runs, another crafts our guitar-ine music with expert knowledge. His benevolence is a shroud to his true intentions to eat all of the pie in your fridge. He is The Wizard.
Finally they are completed by a third of their number, one of loudness, and of obsession with both axes and barely-cooked slabs of animal. He guides at the tip of a paper'd smokable, and is kin to bear and wolf, giant and be-fur'd. He is The Barbarian.
Together, through this unholy triumvirate, Mammoth Axe have come to rekindle what has been lost from bygone ages of metal and purpose. To bring doom and heavy-ness to those who need it most. And to be a giant middle-finger to the godless pop-fanciers.
The time has come, friends, to take back what was once ours. The time has come to drink, to smoke and to shout. Come with us, and live. Stay, and be forgotten. For the Axe! SKÁL!

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