Swampmouth Jubilee by Spuddle

# SWAMPMOUTH JUBILEE

Scrawled by torchlight on scraps of moldy parchment while huddled in Skazbog's squelchiest corner!

We dragged this album kicking and screaming from the muck after three weeks trapped in the Mawpit's shadow, sleeping in shifts to dodge the Corpsecleaners and their blasted soap buckets. The Slumbersheen Spoor hit us all like a sack of rotten turnips – had us dreaming the same foggy nonsense for days, seeing ghosts of old kin and treasures we'd lost to the swamp years ago.

"Fungletongue Holler" came first, hammered out on Tizwich's mandolin while we traded stories around a trash-fire. Rizzlet kept insisting she'd seen her long-lost spoon collection floating above the market stalls. By "Mawpit's Burden," half of Skazbog was sleepwalking through the tunnels, singing to things that weren't there.

The music's got all the grime you'd expect – we've stomped our boots through every track, rattled rusty cans against moldy buckets, and Clag even dragged that washtub bass through seven miles of bog to get the right squelch on "Burlap Heist." There's mandolin riffs sharp enough to pick your teeth with, vocals growled through throats full of swamp water, and choruses you can shout along to with a mouthful of stolen mushrooms.

When we recorded "Feast of Teethers," three rival gangs crashed the session, turning it into a proper mud-wrestling match until we bribed them with fermented toadjuice. You can hear them howling in the background if you listen close enough.

This ain't your fancy-pants elf music or dwarf hymns about gold. This is REAL goblin sounds – the kind that gets in your boots and never washes out. It's what happens when dreams and memories get all tangled up with trash and treasure, when you're scared of losing your kin but too stubborn to admit it.

By "Muddy Anthem," we'd finally kicked that Spoor right back to whatever nightmare-hole it crawled from. Whole swamp joined in – even caught some Spitekeepers tapping their claws when they thought nobody was looking.

So grab yourself something sticky, press play, and wade right in. You might come out filthier, but we promise your heart'll be full of goblin-grade joy.

— Scribbled by Rizzlet (while Clag was busy trading perfectly good songsheets for what turned out to be poisonous toadstools. Again.)

P.S. Stole these recording machines from a passing merchant caravan. No refunds if your ears start growing mushrooms. That's just the magic taking hold!

Knee-deep in swamp muck, ripping banjos through busted amps—we're SPUDDLE. Our songs crawl from mushroom-riddled hovels, snarling tales of trash-treasure and tooth-bartering at Skazbog market. Grab yer mossy boots and join our filthy revolution!