We’ve updated our Terms of Use to reflect our new entity name and address. You can review the changes here.
We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.


by Grim Father

  • Digital Album
    Streaming + Download

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
    Purchasable with gift card

      $999 USD  or more

    You own this




𝘐𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘮 𝘍𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥-𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭. 𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘖𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘏𝘶𝘥𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘑𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘴. 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦.

Part One
“You know when you catch something from the corner of your eye, but when you turn, nothing. So you say it’s shadows, or wildlife darting out of view. It’s the opposite with them. When you first see them, it’s always from the periphery, and when you look...I don’t know. They seem inevitable.”

Part Two
“It was my brothers day to hang and the whole town had come out. Not long after he stopped kicking it showed up, right there, in the middle of the gathering. Folks couldn’t scatter fast enough. I ain’t never seen one of them hurt anybody, but something about them makes people nervous. It just stood there towering over everyone, watching. Funny thing, it didn’t seem interested in my brother dangling like everyone else. Even after I turned to head home I could still feel it’s gaze burrowing into the back of my head. Folks been treating me different ever since.”

Part Three
“It wasn’t his fault, Gregor, that is. It did what they always do, appear out of nowhere. As if they have always existed in that very spot even if they wasn’t there five moments before. Anyway, Gregor was deep in his drink and came around with his wits all a mess and this “watcher” is standing right at his shoulder. So Gregor lashes out instinctually and his fist leaves this indent in the fabric it’s wearing, like a foot print in mud. The next thing I knew was my knees hitting the floor and a ringing in my ears. When I came to it looked like everyone in the tavern had suffered a similar experience, with the exception of Gregor who still lay out cold. He was in bed for weeks straight, thrashing and squealing. Inconsolable. He bit through his tongue at some point but he still kept on making just the worst sounds. When he finally succumbed, physicians were hungry to get at the corpse of a “watcher” victim. I heard when they opened him, everything inside was liquefied, just slowly melted away. Hell, what do you imagine that feels like?”

Part Four
“I’ve been all over and the tales are more varied than you might expect. Some say they stand twice as tall as an average man, others swear they come up to your waist. Two or three arms? Maybe none? Hunched under the dining table, standing knee deep in a lake, looming over the tall grass of the wheat fields—I’ve heard ‘em all. Not one story sounds the same. Except for the headpiece. They all have that helmet with those cursed runes.”

Part Five
“Observers? That’s what you call them? Maybe it depends on where you hail from. I’ve heard ‘em called watchers and lurkers—shades and haunts. Damn eerie no matter what name you hang around it.
It’s funny, you attach a moniker to something with the intent of making it familiar or common place. I suppose it’s just what we do when we can’t figure a reason for something. We have to live alongside it, might as well give it a cute name.”

Part Six
“I am the eyes of Father Grimoire.”
“You’ve heard them say it too, right? I can’t gleam any meaning in it, but I’ll be damned if you can get them to say anything else. Not that you would want them to be more vocal. The sound of their words is like rocks tumbling in your mind.”

Part Seven
“I have it here somewhere—
Right, this one here is in poor condition due to its age, so I’ll ask that you do not handle it. The author is unknown but in this parchment they describe a structure of absurd scale that would appear to shift and rearrange itself at random intervals. It’s obsidian walls appeared to have no seams and were unscalable. They also mention that it did not always stand were it stood, but rather seemed to conjure from nothing at some point. They directly call it the “Wandering Archives”, whether this nomenclature was already established or a creation of the writer is unknown.
Most theories about the Observers cite this mysterious structure as their possible origin point, though any historical evidence of this is rare and mostly ancient.”

Part Eight
“You will have to excuse me—recalling memory can be like wading through molasses nowadays.
The Grim Father? Why—that story was old when I was a young girl. I believe some people called him the Archivist or the Head of the Unholy Sermon. My favorite telling involved his exploitation of his followers in order to fund some dark research—‘til one day he finds what he’s looking for and it drives him mad. After that he lived eternally in his dark fortress, performing insidious magics and rituals with said followers—bending and corrupting them. Ridiculous right? Well I’ve been hearing about these phantoms showing up where they have no right to. It gets me wondering about those ancient tales.
The thing about stories is—if they get old enough—it gets real hard to pull apart the truth from the legend. If you don’t mind—I’m not feeling well all a sudden—“

Part Nine
“It’s there! You see? The gap in the wall? I’ve been watching the changes every day since it showed up and I’ve never seen an opening before.
If you want to make it in we must be quick!”
“This is—how is it so big? It looks like the hall stretches on endlessly. My lamp light can’t reach the ceiling—and the books? There isn’t an inch to spare on these shelves and they span the length of the walls. This is absurd.”
“You feel that as well? The subtle vibrations on the foundation? They feel patterned, like footsteps. Something about the air as well. It feels, thick—malleable. Maybe we should turn back. Are the vibrations getting louder?”
“Are these the Observers? How many are there? I can’t—the scale of this place is too much. Those damned footsteps! Why would a structure need to be this large? To house what?”


released July 8, 2022

Foreword to Grim Father’s Observer

Writing music for the better part of the last two decades, Chris Hudson brings his sophomore album under the Grim Father moniker, Observer, to flesh, masterfully blending industrial synth and prog-rocky drums in Classical-like interludes that, with their riveting swells and fairy-delicate arpeggios, would crack smiles even in the seasoned Tchaikovsky—all the while entertaining the goth with moments of hypnotic droning.

Perhaps more sonically desperate than its dungeon synth cousins, likely for Hudson’s rock roots (very much at play here), a certain hopelessness grounds much of the record. Though the initial “The Royal Pyre” delivers—ironically, in following the bitter gravity of an horrendous scream—delivers what feels like a mirthful “wall of sound,” coursing onward with a jocund synthline, a parade of snare-play, and a trombone so bright you can taste the warm brass, the tone of the album largely shifts subterranean for its remaining six-track-stay: “Sorcerer at the Door” thumps maze-like about fuzzy synth and otherworldly reverberations; “Father Grimoire” shrieks and sobs with some kind of reeling regret; and “Bastards at Arms” marches with the franticness of maddened pacing, and stews in the tranquil dizziness of its walker’s inevitable fall. Wrapping the trappings of the dungeon synth genre so, said … bleakness escalates the creepy musicality here to the lofty heights of CONTEMPLATION. Side-by-side, thus, Observer provides us with the rare opportunity to play about the fantasy of our supernatural pleasures whilst we bury ourselves beneath the overwhelming weight of our crumbling dreams.

- Andrew Verdekel

:: :: :: :: :: :: ::

All music composed, written, mixed, and performed by Chris Hudson.
Illustration(s) by Jordon Hudson.
Dedicated to M.A.L.


© ℗ MMXXII, Chris Hudson. All rights reserved.


all rights reserved



PSEUDOCORP Eureka, California

Enemies of Reality.

Assaulting nostalgia since 2019.

For all inquiries:

Download codes:

contact / help


Streaming and
Download help

Shipping and returns

Redeem code

Report this album or account