Rites of Hadda – Occult Sex Worker

It’s Samhain’s eve, the night when the veil thins, and there’s no better time to dig into a record that thrives in the shadows. I’ve always kept an eye on Grow Your Own Records, and just when I thought I’d worked my way through their catalogue, I realized I’d somehow missed Occult Sex Worker, the 2023 full-length from London’s Rites of Hadda. With the band describing themselves as “anarcho, pagan, gothic, psychedelic witchpunk,” it feels like the perfect record to revisit under the October moon.

Rites of Hadda don’t play music that fits neatly into any one genre or category. Their songs stretch in multiple directions at once, pulling together anarcho-punk, psych rock, drag performance, ritual magick, and theatre. Yet, despite the myriad influences and styles, a core of clarity and purpose remains. The lyrics move between personal and political spaces, touching on queer identity, sex work, Tarot, and folk horror without ever feeling performative. The music is serious, but it’s never dry. It breathes, hisses, chants, and laughs. The use of saxophone and their anarcho-punk leanings remind me most of The Cravats or newer bands like Anarchistwood. Other reviewers have compared them to X-Ray Spex and Hawkwind, which also makes sense, especially in the way the band threads space and psychedelia into punk’s tighter structure.

The record begins with “Dependency,” a brash, minute-long punk invocation. “Attempted Murder” comes next, dragging listeners into a slower, heavier trance built on thick bass and snarling sax. Wasp’s vocals are part narration, part spellcasting, sharp and theatrical but grounded in personality and intent. “Queer Fool” is the best track here. It propels forward with hypnotic rhythm, phases through psychedelic tension, and finally explodes in a swirl of noise and sass. Without a doubt, it’s my top pick. I’d include it on any punk mixtape or playlist to shake things up and break the mold of uniformity. “Glimpse of Fate” is a thirty-second synth wash, more atmosphere than structure, which prepares the space for “They Let You Down.” This is the record’s funeral march, slow and mourning, punctuated by moments of release. It’s the longest track on the album, but earns every second.

The flipside opens with “An Eldritch Calls,” a brief haunted synth passage, before snapping into “Sex Worker of the Pandemic,” a galloping punk number that brings Wasp’s vocals front and center again. “9 of Swords” follows with disorienting sax lines and shifting time signatures, a dizzying invocation of dread and transformation. “Final Fling” is more direct, but even in its straightest moments, the band refuse to color inside the lines. There’s always something off that yanks the band into the queer and stranger territory. The closer, “Death Cart,” moves like a plague procession. There’s a martial rhythm and mournful sax to create a tension before giving way to noise, ritual chants, and finally dissolving into a ghostly breath. “These days, the death carts are hospital beds” is one of the most chilling lines on the record, reminding me of bands like Rudimentary Peni with its lyrical nods.

Recorded and produced by John Youens (SLPC) at Overdrive Studios in Deptford, Occult Sex Worker sounds exactly as intended. While their self-descriptions, like “sex’n’drag rock’n’roll” and “witchpunk,” might sound playful, the band is dead serious about what they’re doing. They don’t resort to irony and theatricality for their own sake, nor do they feel the need to explain themselves. This isn’t something to passively consume. It speaks to queer and trans grief, resistance, transformation, and survival, and it does so without diluting any of its intent. Weird in all the ways that count.