On their final LP, Wolf Whistle slow down a step to explore the existential dread in the residential areas of their youth. A gruesome true crime story that points the finger at a host of offenders, from the local “Meat Man” to heaven’s own last line of defense: St. Peter. There is little innocence left in this sweaty cul-de-sac of Melvins-esque primal punk. “Private Hell…” is oppressive humidity captured sonically, a detailed account of a specific suburban misery. A bug-zapper hums through the background of 11 songs, as old skeletons get unearthed behind the toolshed of your parents' home. Vocals reverberate like your neighbors' domestic disturbance; a muffled echo off vinyl siding. As you contemplate a swan dive into a drained in-ground pool, you realize 25 minutes have passed. Did you notice the melted ice cream dripping down your arm?