Working on Sounds music weekly in the 70s and 80s, it’s no exaggeration to say that, as a writer on the mag, I would receive two or three phone calls a day from bands trying to entice me down to their latest live performance: “You don’t know what you’re missing… we’re the next big thing… we’re on the verge of signing a major deal… you’ll regret it when we’re selling a million albums a week and we can’t be bothered to talk to you…” et cetera, et cetera.

Sometimes I’d accept their invitations; sometimes I wouldn’t. The thin dividing line between affirmative and negative would often hinge on completely arbitrary things: trivial details such as tone of voice; how desperate they sounded; how aggressive or annoying they were; how many drinks they were willing to buy you; if the venue was close by or in the wilds of who-knows-where; the weather; if your fingernails needed trimming; the colour of the office carpet; what kind of sandwich you’d eaten at lunchtime, and whether it’d given you indigestion or not…

If that sounds harsh, it probably was. But for good or ill, that was the way it seemed to work in those days.

So, enter Witchfynde. At the height of the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal at the start of the 80s, one of the band’s members—I believe it was their guitarist, the delightfully named Montalo—would contact me on a regular basis and request my attendance at one of their shows. But because the office carpet was light-green at the time, I always hummed-and-ha’d and said I would have to regretfully decline.

I wasn’t being rude; I guess I was just being apathetic. Witchfynde’s gigs always seemed to be taking place miles away: in their home town of Mansfield or somewhere equally Godforsaken like Alfreton. In any case, I’d already got a favourite Black Metal band, Venom, and I’d blithely fingered Witchfynde—with all their ‘blessed be’ nonsense—as just another bunch of poor-imitation demonic rockers.

I even managed to miss Witchfynde when they embarked on a 40-date British tour, supporting Def Leppard. In the end, all this frustration boiled over. The result was a short, untitled track (no.8 on this CD) tacked on to the end of side two of the band’s original ‘Give ’Em Hell’ elpee. Crackling like a scratchy old 78rpm record, the number begins with someone snarling, “This one’s for you, Geoff” over a rendition of the ‘Dick Barton, Special Agent’ theme. Next comes the question, “How many stars? Two?” (A reference to Sounds’ album-review ranking system, where releases were marked from one star through to five). Obviously anticipating a slag-off, a voice subsequently exclaims, “Go on—hit him!” and the sounds of a fight (liberally laced with farts and laughter) ensue as Witchfynde rain down blows in an attempt to make this critic reappraise his rating.

Well, they’ve finally succeeded. Nearly twenty-five years after my review of ‘Give ’Em Hell’ in Sounds (where I actually gave it three-and-a-half stars) I can proudly-but-tardily proclaim the album to be a NWOBHM classic.

From the rumbling echoes of ‘Ready To Roll’; to the chunky pomposity of ‘The Divine Victim’ (a song about Joan of Arc); to the beautifully crafted and occasionally Rush-like ‘Leaving Nadir’ (a favourite of long-time NWOBHM fan, Metallica drummer Lars Ulrich); to the lumpen lunacy of ‘Gettin’ Heavy’ and the title track; to the epic ‘Unto The Ages Of The Ages’ (which I wrongly described as ‘an unsuccessful attempt to duplicate Black Sabbath’s ‘The Warning’’ in my Sounds review); to ‘Pay Now, Love Later’, a cautionary tale of a sweet young thing who demands money before sex… this is soul-stirring stuff indeed.

Or, as writer Mick Middles said in Sounds in August 1980: ‘The album is as raw as it is mysterious. Comparisons with early Black Sabbath must surely be relevant although the scope of the music is unusually wide.’

The talents of vocalist Steve Bridges (who would later be replaced by the ludicrous Luther Beltz) are admittedly limited on ‘Give ’Em Hell’, but what really stands out on the record is Montalo’s thoughtful and superbly rendered guitar work: some of his nascent NWOBHM licks are simply out of this world. And check out one of the bonus tracks on this CD (I won’t tell you which one): isn’t that the almost-exact riff to ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’, recorded by Montalo years before Guns ’N Roses even formed—and shouldn’t the guitarist be demanding substantial royalties?!

These days, Witchfynde are often called one of the three original Black Metal bands, along with the aforementioned Venom and Mercyful Fate. I would argue with that statement, as Witchfynde were more of a traditionally British, Judas Priest-style hard rock band with understated satanic leanings. Or, as current vocalist (yes, Witchfynde still appear to be in existence) Harry Harrison explained in a recent online interview: “There was Black Widow in the very early days, which I guess was an influence on Witchfynde, at least in the combination of the music and the stage show. Black Sabbath obviously took it more to the music side than the stage show side. At the time when Witchfynde started out [the band were actually founded as early as 1973 or ’74] we were probably the only band to combine the two. I think Mercyful Fate were a bit later than us. But Venom, yes, certainly. That is an incredible thing, to have come up with the term Black Metal.”

Of Witchfynde’s stage show, that man Middles again reported in Sounds in 1980: ‘They inject a sense of humour into their act… and act it is, what with burning candles and silly haunting backing tapes. All reality is boiled in a cauldron full of crashing chords and an hour of beer-influenced, ecstatic and useless madness is produced. Witchfynde are, for dubious reasons, the best new heavy metal band I’ve seen in 10 years.’

The sad fact that Witchfynde’s career never took off was largely down to their first record deal with small-time Mansfield outfit Rondelet Records, who tied them to their contract when the bigger labels came sniffing.

“We had offers from different labels, EMI being one, to buy us out but they [Rondelet] said no,” guitarist Montalo once said. “They wanted to keep all the money for themselves. So we got totally ripped off. They didn’t have the money to keep pushing us forward and we ground to a halt.”

After a second album, ‘Stagefright’, Witchfynde extricated themselves from Rondelet and signed with the little-known Expulsion label for their third effort, ‘Cloak And Dagger’. But Expulsion apparently went bankrupt, as did Mausoleum, the Belgian label that released the band’s fourth album, ‘Lords Of Sin’. “Mausoleum was yet another unfortunate deal,” said Montalo dejectedly.

After ‘Lords Of Sin’, “we didn’t split up or anything, we just never spoke to each other for a while—for 18 years I think!” the guitarist recently explained. “We didn’t fall out or anything but we were just so fed up with it all.”

Witchfynde disappeared, seemingly for good, in 1986. But that wasn’t quite the end of it. A best-of compilation came out in ’96 and then, by the beginning of the Noughties, the band’s story had become tangled up in chaos as fans discovered two bands operating under (almost) the same name: Witchfynde and Wytchfynde.

The former outfit comprised Montalo, original drummer Gar Scoresby, bassist Pete Surgery (who joined for second album, ‘Stagefright’) and new vocalist, ex-Rebel and Clownhouse singer Harry Harrison.

Meanwhile, Wytchfynde (note devious spelling difference) were formed by vocalist Luther Beltz, who debuted with the original band on their third album, ‘Cloak And Dagger’, in 1983. The Beltz-led outfit issued a new record, ‘The Awakening’, via Demolition Records during 2001. Not to be outdone, Witchfynde (I hope you’re following this; there’ll be a test later) followed it up with an album of their own, ‘The Witching Hour’, which was released in November ’01 on the Neat/Edgy label, and consisted mostly of re-recorded versions of old favourites.

After a spate of gigs in 2002 and 2003 the Witchfynde/Wytchfynde trail goes a little cold, and both bands appear to be dormant at the moment. But I think it’s fair to say that there must still be a good deal of acrimony between the two outfits. When asked his opinion of Beltz’s Wytchfynde, Montalo said: “It’s just ludicrous. He’s doing it to deceive people.”

But at least Witchfynde are, at long last, getting some respect: “When I speak to the press these days,” added Montalo, “everybody is now kind and very complimentary to us—and I find that very odd.”

Odd, maybe, but not before bloody time. And you never know: one day soon I might bump into Montalo in Mansfield’s high street. I’ll probably be up there on a fact-Fynding mission.