Charlotte's P.O.W. drag down riffs from the murk of sludge and doom, rolling out slow-burn heaviness rooted in weed-soaked Southern misery. Formed in 2014, they trade in the kind of suffocating low-end that makes the floor feel like it's sinking.

Los Angeles newcomers Pagoto smash crossover thrash and sludge together into a filthy, high-energy hybrid that owes as much to hardcore warehouses as it does to metal stages. Formed in 2024, they bring the reckless aggression of the LA underground to both styles at once.

Chicago's Pale Horseman have been serving up punishing Midwestern sludge since 2013, built on bottom-heavy riffs and the kind of negative space that makes silence feel threatening. Their sound carries the weight of the city's industrial history with every down-tuned chord.

Saginaw, Michigan's Pancreas wade through the slow-motion collision of doom and sludge, creating something physically oppressive enough to match the post-industrial weight of their struggling rust-belt city. Active since 2012, they build riffs like they're pouring concrete.

Phil Anselmo's post-Pantera project delivering raw, unfiltered thrash and sludge.

Orange County's Pigeonwing has been pushing sludge metal into new territory since 2012, balancing crawling heaviness with an underlying melodic sensibility that gives their misery unexpected depth.

Johnson City's Pilgrimm has been trudging through the sludge since 2007, bringing the weight of Appalachian isolation to their slow-burn, Southern-tinged heaviness.

Cleveland's Pillärс (stylized with an umlaut and a grimace) combines crust punk's political bite with doom and sludge's crushing tempo, forging music as heavy as the city's industrial legacy demands.

Out of Spearfish, South Dakota — a long way from any metal scene — Pine Beetle channels the desolate Black Hills landscape into slow, sun-baked stoner sludge with teeth.

Boise's Pink Soapy Vomit launched in 2025 with a name designed to disturb and a sound to match — a corrosive blend of death and sludge metal that sounds exactly as pleasant as it should.

Syracuse's Plague Mask has been cultivating a blackened doom sludge pestilence since 2012 — slow, harrowing, and suffused with the kind of upstate New York despair that only January in that city can produce.

Chicago's Plague of Carcosa draws its name from Robert W. Chambers' mythos and its sound from the intersection of stoner, sludge, and doom — heavy, hazy, and haunted by something that refuses to be named.

Albany's Planet Eater drag sludge and stoner weight through a metalcore framework, building slow-burning riffs into volatile, lurching explosions. Since 2016 they've carved a niche in the Northeast underground where heaviness is measured in tonnage.

Indiana's Plenary Indulgence crawls through the intersection of funeral doom and sludge with crushing deliberateness, building suffocating walls of feedback and grief into extended dirges. Formed in 2022, the project channels the bleakest traditions of the genre — glacial tempos, cavernous tones, and the oppressive weight of something that refuses to end quickly.

Denver's Potion Cellar brews a dense, suffocating blend of post-metal and sludge that feels like descending into the city's underbelly — riff-heavy passages that crawl and collapse under their own weight before opening into vast, desolate stretches of atmosphere. Formed in 2017, they channel the slow-burn intensity that defines the Mile High underground, building tension through dynamics rather than speed. There's something alchemical in their approach: raw, ugliness transmuted into something hypnotic.