What the f*ck is goblincore?: Folklore, dungeon synth & fungi fashion

Samhain. The Celtic fire festival of yore that, in some form, evolved into the holiday we all now know and celebrate each year as Halloween. One of the oldest Pagan festivals known to man, it marks the close of the harvest season, when ancient tribes would come together on the eve of October 31st, to feast on slaughtered livestock and crops in preparation for the long, dark and frigid winter months ahead.

It was believed that Samhain was when the boundary between the living and the dead was at its weakest. History describes scenes during the holiday that aren’t too dissimilar to those we are used to seeing in the autumn today: people wearing disguises and lighting huge roaring bonfires, to confuse hostile beings and cleanse their surroundings of evil influences. In contrast to recent times, however, our ancestors would leave offerings of food and drink for the spirits of the departed who would come visiting from other realms, while also trying to appease and protect themselves from troublesome trickster beings that sought to muddle with their affairs. Most notably, goblins.

Millennia later, those same mischievous goblins - the culprits partly to blame for the enduring tradition of sugar-crazed kids in dodgy costumes banging on your door once a year - would, somewhat unexpectedly, become the muse for a modern online subculture: goblincore.

Unlike the stark, mystical origins of Samhain, goblincore was born behind screens in the 2010s. Early enthusiasts - eco-minded keyboard warriors with a fondness for the whimsical, the outdoors, and all things damp, muddy, and moss-covered - found one another on platforms like Tumblr, TikTok, and Reddit. In these digital spaces, they acknowledged and shared their passion for the overlooked corners of nature, often dismissed as ugly or undesirable - such as frogs, snails, rotting leaves, mushrooms and even the bones of animals. 

But it wasn’t until COVID-19 hit and lockdowns took hold that the culture truly exploded into the mainstream. As people grew weary of material excess and sought reconnection with the environment, goblincore offered a grounded escape from digital addiction. 

Now described as the scuzzier cousin of cottagecore, with its pastel, picture-perfect aesthetic, the culture stands as a rejection of the glossy, Instagram-filtered world of clean and curated lifestyles. Instead, it celebrates the wild, the messy, and the beautifully imperfect sides of the natural world.

There’s no pressure for those who engage with goblincore to have flawless skin or designer labels. Goblins, gobs or gobbos, as they affectionately call themselves, are encouraged to embrace their organic appearance, to don loose and comfortable clothing, get outside, and get dirt under their nails. Whether foraging for mushrooms (used for a variety of enlightening - and occasionally mind-bending - purposes) or pocketing discarded trinkets, just as the goblins of fantasy and folklore once did, the thrill lies in discovery. Trinkets, known as “shinies” in the goblincore world, include small objects like rocks and acorns, and forgotten items such as old keys, marbles, and bottle caps. Each one embodies the subculture’s love for the often missed details of the everyday - proof that joy still hides in the nooks and crannies, and comes without a price tag. 

And while those practising goblincore don’t buy into capitalist ideals, they still carve out a distinct look of their own. You’ll find gobbos furiously rifling through rails of second-hand clothing in thrift and charity stores, unearthing pieces with tones pulled straight from fields, forests, and other natural landscapes - part homage to the wilderness and part acting camouflage for when out collecting those unloved treasures. Should they find a garment bearing fungi prints or embroidered insect motifs, it’s less a shopping trip and more a goblin’s Christmas morning.

Given the prior passage of text, it goes without saying that meeting a gobbo could be considered just as much an aromatic experience as it would be visual. Wool knit jumpers scented faintly of the sheep from which they once came and musty old jackets, skirts and corduroy pants, all mixed in with tailored floral fragrances and, in some cases, the dank smell of grass - the type of which you might run into trouble with if found on your person by law enforcement.

Fashion writers have even seized the opportunity, unsurprisingly, to coin a label for the aesthetic. In menswear circles specifically, it’s referred to as “mushroomcore.” You’ll have undoubtedly seen contemporary and independent streetwear brands over the past few years leaning into this style. From General Admission and Undercover to Heresy and Good Morning Tapes, few haven’t played with imagery in their products that somehow relate to the subculture. 

Then there are those who, as TikTok became more popular, took the goblincore look to entirely new levels, parodying fae-folk or goblins for the pleasure of millions of doomscrollers worldwide. Vibrant green hair, crowns made of what could be carcasses, wearing elaborate face paint, pixie ears, and other handmade accessories. Search #goblincore on TikTok - a hashtag which, according to TikTok’s Creative Center, has received a staggering 2.2 billion views - and you’ll be greeted by hundreds, if not thousands, of videos of these eccentric folks, doing goblin things and finding liberation in the muck and the mire.

It’s within these videos that you might first experience the sound of goblincore and some of the artists which make up the listening habits of your average gobbo. Of course, there are many other places where you might find such jams that a goblin gets down to - from playlists on media and music streaming platforms, the likes of Spotify and YouTube, to live events taking place across the UK and beyond. But understanding why said artists and genres are associated requires further explanation.

Unlike other music fans who might follow certain record labels for their rosters, or stick to specific genres that suit their taste, a gobbo’s relationship with music is driven purely by mood. When choosing tracks to add to TikTok videos or curating their own goblincore playlists, they aim to conjure the world they want to live in using sound, texture, and tone as tools for storytelling. Worlds where nature hums louder than technology. Where the undergrowth breathes, the wind whistles through the trees, and leaves crunch beneath the feet of unseen creatures. A world alive with magic and mystique.

Tracks with references to goblins will always be a huge hit within the community, it goes without saying. Frank Zappa’s ‘Goblin Girl’ or Ratwyfe’s ‘Let’s Be Goblins’, for example, would no doubt cause a ruckus in a room full of gobs. But when it comes to genres in particular, predictably, there are a handful that are better suited to helping them create said previously mentioned worlds. 

The first is folk. With its roots in early agricultural societies - music made to tell stories and keep rhythm while working the land (the same land from which goblins were first imagined) - folk remains one of the principal sounds of goblincore. This broad genre branches into many offshoots that resonate with the subculture’s followers: from the more familiar rock and indie-folk stylings of popular artists like Hozier, Ben Howard, Aurora, Big Thief, Fleet Foxes and Ty Segall, to the lesser-known realms of neo-folk, dark folk and pagan folk that speak directly to a gobbo’s mystical heart. Artists such as Heilung, Wardruna and Faun, though not explicitly labelled as “goblincore” acts, create music that summons visions of a long-forgotten, more spiritual age. An age in which a goblin might have thrived. Traditional percussive instruments, the kind you might hear echoing through fantasy epics like Game of Thrones or Vikings, meet droning synths and tribal-like vocals, chanting of sorcery, spirit animals, and the fragile thread between humankind and nature.

A defining name and arguably one of the most cited artists within the goblincore sphere is experimental folk visionary, Cosmo Sheldrake. The brother of a mycologist (you couldn’t write it), Cosmo, who performs under his own name, exists somewhere between a madcap biologist and a woodland bard. His quirky sonic creations blend ambient field recordings with electronic beats and organic rhythms, capturing - both vividly and viscerally - the sounds, scents, and sensations of life immersed in green spaces. Pure goblin smut.

Then there’s dungeon synth. This DIY genre, derived directly from the black metal scene of the 90s, represents the more mystical side of goblincore’s musical spectrum. Its creators usually work in solitude, creating quest-like synth tracks with a distinctive neo-medieval nod. A sound that wouldn’t seem completely out of place on a classic Nintendo RPG, such as Zelda, Holy Magic Century or Ogre Battle.

Like the aforementioned black metal groups of the 90s, dungeon synth acts also circulate their music almost entirely on physical formats - specifically, tapes. You’ll find Bandcamp awash with labels and artists representing the genre, including Fief, Erang, Hedge Wizard, and Varkâna, to name a few. See the Dungeon Synth Database, an online archive dedicated to cataloguing and preserving the genre, for more.

When it comes to live performance, you’ll find dungeon synth events popping up sporadically right across the globe. Zach McAdam, the organiser behind what is one of the UK’s most renowned dungeon synth gatherings, London’s annual Albion Dungeon Festival, explains why he believes there’s a link between Goblincore culture and dungeon synth:

“We see a ton of metal friends attending the festival, and it’s cool to see a real mix of music fans showing up for a weekend of dungeon synth. Although I’m no expert on Goblincore, I would say that we definitely have attendees who rock the subculture’s look. I would also say that some are fans of offshoots of fantasy or comfy synth genres that align more closely to the Goblincore aesthetic.”

Dig deeper into the extremities of playlists, sidebars and the world wide web, and you’re also likely to discover a few other out there choices: some more tongue-in-cheek, others much heavier, reflecting the more raw and guttural energy of goblincore. 

Take, for example, DJ Lord of the Rings. This collective has become renowned in the festival scene in recent years, recognised for their wild performances and remixes of - you guessed it - Lord of the Rings soundtracks and soundbites. While there’s no clear evidence that this group has embraced goblincore ways, their stage presence is fantasy-heavy, with obvious Tolkien references and attire to boot, placing them aesthetically close to the subculture's visual narrative (and who doesn’t want to see MC Gandalf going full Middle-earth live on stage?). 

On the flip side, popular among metalheads who have found an affinity with the ethos of goblincore, acts like Mortiis and Nekrogoblikon have become loosely connected to this folklore-inspired universe. 

Taking cues from those who, mostly satirically, mimic the characteristics of a goblin on TikTok - or, more likely, vice versa - Mortiis and the frontman of Nekrogoblikon, John Goblikon, AKA American comedian, writer, and podcast host, Dave Rispoli, go a step further than most, taking great lengths to visually transform themselves into real-life goblins. 

It’s impossible to talk about goblincore without acknowledging the controversies and criticisms it has faced, due to its adoption of the goblin as its figurehead. Critics have questioned the culture’s use of goblin imagery, given its echoes of antisemitism in the past. But within the community, this fictional being has been reclaimed, not as a caricature, but as a creature of freedom and inclusion. So embracing is the community that a large cross-section of those who identify as gobbos represent the queer community, drawn in by the ideas of self-expression and non-conformity. For many within queer and trans spaces, goblincore represents a haven: a place to live loudly in the mess away from the prejudices of society.

What’s strikingly obvious about goblincore as a whole is that, when you consider its many layers - the habits and eccentricities of its enthusiasts, the grungy fashion and its musical heartbeat - it’s not much to do with goblins at all. Its meaning is rooted in the simple belief that genuine joy and acceptance exist outside the confines of modern enterprise and technology. There’s a lesson to be learnt here that we should all take heed of: you don’t have to skint yourself to create the illusion of happiness and wealth, as sponsored by every screen, feed and zine on the planet. Instead, channel your inner goblin, stick on a goblincore playlist, and go frolicking in the woods this October, as our predecessors once did. 

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Header image credit: Andrej Lišakov / Unsplash.com