SIKKUTT

Born from the static and the smoke, SikKutt drags horror into the booth and makes it bleed rhythm. Raised between southern grit and urban decay, he forged his sound in the dark — a place where carnival lights flicker, sermons rot into feedback, and every scream finds a beat. His music walks that thin edge between confession and chaos, a sermon for the damned with 808s instead of organs.

SikKutt blends trap, metal, and industrial with the slow grind of horrorcore storytelling — the kind that breathes gasoline and blood. Each project feels like a fever dream carved into vinyl: Blood Under the Big Top built a circus out of pain, Echoes of Blood turned serial myths into symphonies, and every single since drips with the pulse of a world gone wrong. He doesn’t just rap about darkness — he builds cathedrals in it.

Behind the mask and distortion, there’s precision — a craftsman who turns trauma into design, noise into scripture. Every bar is deliberate, every distortion a layer of the myth. His voice — deep, measured, almost ritual — cuts through like a rusted blade polished with intent. SikKutt isn’t chasing charts; he’s etching his name into the wall between nightmare and legacy.

In his world, the carnival never closes. The lights stay red. The crowd stays hungry. And the music? It keeps the monsters dancing.