maniac mayhem

No one really knows where Maniac Mayhem came from. Some say he crawled out of a basement studio built over a graveyard. Others swear he was raised on broken drum machines and VHS tapes of old horror flicks. What’s certain is this — when you hear his beats, something inside you shifts. The walls close in. The lights flicker. And suddenly, you’re not listening anymore — you’re inside it.

Mayhem doesn’t make music. He builds nightmares with rhythm. Each track bleeds distortion and breathes paranoia — the sound of rusted chains dragged across concrete, of heavy footsteps in a hall with no exits. His world is all low-end and bad dreams; a twisted sermon from the mind of someone who’s seen too much and decided to turn it into art.

His production is unpolished on purpose — raw, violent, alive. The snares don’t snap; they stab. The bass doesn’t hit; it hunts. Every loop feels like a ritual, every drop like a scream caught on tape. It’s trap music through the cracked lens of a slasher film — dirty, haunting, and weirdly beautiful.

From parts unknown, Maniac Mayhem doesn’t chase trends. He buries them. And when the last echo fades, all that’s left is silence… and the feeling that something’s still in the room with you.