Halloween playlists often default to novelty tracks like “Monster Mash,” but for those seeking genuinely unsettling music, a deeper dive is required. Forget predictable spooky tunes and explore this curated collection of truly Creepy Songs. From vintage murder ballads that recount real-life horrors to dissonant classical compositions that evoke psychological unease, and psychedelic freak-outs that tap into the darker corners of the mind, this list traverses genres and eras to uncover the most chilling sounds in music history. Prepare for spine-tingling experiences with shock-rock creep-outs, Southern gothic alt-rock gloom, art-noise desolation, and much more. These aren’t just Halloween novelties; they are genuinely creepy songs that linger in the psyche long after the music stops.
Carolina Buddies, “The Murder of the Lawson Family” (ca. 1930)
This haunting murder ballad, which later became a folk standard thanks to the Stanley Brothers’ famous 1956 recording, delves into a chilling true crime story. The Carolina Buddies, a struggling string band of the 1930s, captured a raw nerve with their rendition of the Charlie Lawson tragedy. Just the year before, on Christmas Day, Lawson committed a horrific act: murdering his wife and six of his seven children, laying their heads on stone pillows, before taking his own life. His seventh child was spared, only by being out on an errand. The Buddies’ performance is marked by a chilling Appalachian resignation, acknowledging the brutal reality of everyday violence without resorting to sensationalism. Set against the backdrop of the Great Depression, the song’s narrative of inexplicable familial destruction gains an even more profound sense of tragedy, suggesting that even the sanctuary of family offered no escape from the pervasive despair of the era. This vintage recording is a stark reminder of the creepy songs rooted in real-life horror.
Louvin Brothers, “Knoxville Girl” (1956)
Perhaps the quintessential Appalachian murder ballad, “Knoxville Girl” presents a disturbing first-person account. It tells the tale of an ostensibly ordinary Tennessee man who, during a walk with his sweetheart, inexplicably beats her to death with a stick, ignoring her desperate pleas. The Louvin Brothers, on their 1956 debut LP Tragic Songs of Life (which made the song a country hit), deliver the grim narrative with chilling rectitude. Ira and Charlie Louvin’s harmonies float over a brisk, deceptively cheerful waltz rhythm, enhancing the fatalistic tone of the morally crisp ending, where the violent killer languishes in prison. However, even incarcerated, the murderer sounds devoid of remorse, mirroring his callousness when disposing of his victim’s body in the river and then returning home to bed. While the recognizable modern form of “Knoxville Girl” emerged in the 1920s, its origins trace back centuries, possibly even to a real 17th-century killing in Wittam, England. The victim’s town varies across versions – from Oxford, England to Wexford, Ireland – a chilling testament to the widespread presence of such violent acts and the enduring tradition of creepy songs that recount them.
Krzystof Penderecki, “Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima” (1960)
Music scholars might label this groundbreaking 20th-century classical piece an exemplary use of “sonorism,” but “Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima” is more viscerally understood as controlled sonic anarchy. This dark sonic cloud, crafted for 52 strings, features instruments smacked, bows sawing across unintended parts, and the entire orchestra buzzing like an enraged swarm of bees. Unsurprisingly, Polish composer Krzystof Penderecki’s work has become cinematic shorthand for tension and psychological suffocation. Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining and Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men both utilize this piece. Furthermore, Penderecki’s unsettling soundscapes influenced Jonny Greenwood’s score for There Will Be Blood and Mica Levi’s score for Under the Skin. Penderecki himself noted the piece’s demanding nature, stating, “For some pieces, like the ‘Threnody,’ I prefer young people to perform it, because they are still open to learn… Some notation that I invented at that time is now common, but there are still some special techniques… These things are unusual, even after 50 years. With so-called normal symphony orchestras, sometimes I refuse to have this piece in the program, because it takes too much rehearsal. Some older orchestra musicians don’t want to learn anything new.” This composition stands as a landmark example of creepy songs in the classical realm.
György Ligeti, “Volumina for Organ” (1962)
Hungarian composer György Ligeti explored sound clusters to create immersive sonic textures, blurring the lines between chaos and movement. His Volumina, a piece for solo organ, famously begins with the performer’s forearms slammed across the keys – an act that reportedly caused the motor of the Göteborg organ to catch fire during one performance. While focused on “colors” rather than traditional notes, Volumina generates remarkable anxiety through its extended passages of dissonance and a duration that stretches to, or beyond, the 15-minute mark. This piece is a sonic exploration of unease, firmly placing it within the category of creepy songs through its sheer sonic density and unsettling textures.
The Doors, “The End” (1967)
Clocking in at nearly twelve minutes, The Doors’ “The End” is a sonic bad trip that culminates in an insane and unexpected climax. This psychedelic rock epic is widely interpreted as a farewell to childhood innocence, a sentiment echoed by Jim Morrison himself in interviews. It begins calmly, with Morrison bidding adieu to his “only friend, the end,” before spiraling into wilder lyrical territories, urging the listener to “ride the snake” and “ride the highway west.” The final section transitions into a spoken-word narrative, retelling the Oedipus myth with Morrison declaring his desire to kill his father and have sex with his mother, before descending into a chaotic barrage of “fuck”s. “The End” evolved during The Doors’ residency as the house band at the Whisky a Go Go. One night, after dropping acid, Morrison improvised the song’s tumultuous conclusion, leading to their prompt firing the next day. Its unsettling narrative and chaotic sonic landscape solidify “The End” as one of rock’s most enduringly creepy songs.
Pink Floyd, “Careful With That Axe, Eugene” (1969)
The psychedelic era of the Sixties often translated horrific fantasies into swirling, ominous soundscapes, echoing the disquiet of bad trips and delving into the listener’s subconscious anxieties. Pink Floyd’s “Careful With That Axe, Eugene,” particularly in its definitive live version on the Ummagumma LP, transcends a mere moody rock jam. It becomes a lysergically constructed haunted house, presenting a series of doors that you are compelled to open, despite your better judgment. The track begins with Richard Wright’s delicate organ and Nick Mason’s fluttering cymbals, accompanied by soft, distant moans that foreshadow impending doom. The title is whispered, and before the implied danger can fully register, Roger Waters unleashes a series of horrifically deranged screams. David Gilmour’s guitar erupts in a frenzied response, but the music soon reverts to the hushed, eerie calm that preceded the violent outburst. Something dreadful has occurred, leaving the listener to conjure the horrifying details. This sonic ambiguity and unsettling atmosphere firmly establish “Careful With That Axe, Eugene” as one of Pink Floyd’s most creepy songs.
Bloodrock, “D.O.A.” (1971)
One-hit wonders Bloodrock achieved improbable Top 40 success with “D.O.A.,” a gruesome, eight-and-a-half-minute, first-person account of dying. The hard rockers’ music mimics a British ambulance siren, setting the stage for lyrics that describe the gory aftermath of a plane crash from the perspective of a man being tended to by an EMT. He feels “something warm flowing down [his] fingers,” attempts to move his arm but finds “there’s nothing there.” He searches for his girlfriend, finding her face covered in blood, staring blankly. The song culminates with the couplet: “The sheets are red and moist where I’m lying/God in Heaven, teach me how to die.” It concludes with the sound of American sirens. Keyboardist Steve Hill reflected on the song’s impact in a 2010 interview: “I guess maybe just the whole thing as a package [music and lyrics] is what freaked people out, and on top of that the sirens… The FCC banned ‘D.O.A.’ A lot of stations didn’t play that because people were pulling over in their cars because they thought there was an ambulance behind them.” “D.O.A.” remains a shocking and undeniably creepy song, due to its graphic lyrics and unsettling sound effects.
Leonard Cohen, “Avalanche” (1971)
Songs of Love and Hate is arguably Leonard Cohen’s most depraved album, a significant statement given his extensive catalog. While tracks like “Dress Rehearsal Rag” (about suicide) and “Famous Blue Raincoat” (about infidelity) deliver undeniable emotional stings, the album’s most unsettling moments reside in the opener, “Avalanche.” Here, Cohen embodies his classic persona of the stygian bard to perfection. Set against rolling flamenco guitar and swelling strings, he portrays a hunchback dwelling at the bottom of a gold mine, sneering, “Your laws do not compel me/To kneel grotesque and bare.” Even as the song descends into dark obsession and, ultimately, pure horror (“It is your turn, beloved/It is your flesh that I wear”), Cohen’s voice maintains a trance-like composure. It’s no surprise that gloom-rock poet laureate Nick Cave has covered this song for over three decades. “Avalanche” is a masterclass in understated creepiness, securing its place among Cohen’s and music’s most creepy songs.
Alice Cooper, “I Love the Dead” (1973)
Shock rock’s greatest showman, Alice Cooper, could populate an entire list of frightening songs – consider “Dead Babies” (child neglect), “The Ballad of Dwight Fry” (insanity from within), or “Sick Things” (self-explanatory). However, it’s one of Cooper’s multiple odes to necrophilia, “I Love the Dead,” that remains his most chilling. There’s an unnerving directness to the studio version of “I Love the Dead” – the gothic and occasionally majestic closing track of Billion Dollar Babies – that transcends mere satire: “While friends and lovers mourn your silly grave/I have other uses for you, darling.” It’s only in live performances, where the song serves as a prelude to Cooper’s nightly guillotine beheading, that it veers into camp. In a 2014 Rolling Stone interview, Cooper downplayed the tune’s shock value: “To me, anyone taking it that seriously… yeah,” he trailed off. “I don’t think you can shock an audience anymore [today]. If I cut my arm off and ate it, OK, that would be shocking. But you can only do it twice.” Despite Cooper’s attempt to diminish its impact, “I Love the Dead” remains a profoundly creepy song due to its unsettling subject matter delivered with such frankness.
Suicide, “Frankie Teardrop” (1977)
Suicide’s Alan Vega introduces Frankie Teardrop, a 20-year-old factory worker struggling to provide for his family, in breathless, rushed vocals, as if longing to burst into “Be-Bop-A-Lula” but trapped in a world too grim for such carefree pleasures. Barely halfway through this nearly ten-and-a-half-minute threnody, Frankie has murdered his family and himself, yet even death offers no escape – “Frankie’s lying in hell,” Vega insists. There is no escape either from Suicide’s claustrophobic no-wave sound. Vega’s screams are not cathartic; initially stifled with shame, they escalate into full-throated bursts that dissolve into sobs or are fragmented into infinity by delay effects. The story of Frankie Teardrop could have been mere melodrama with the slashing guitars and driving beats of Suicide’s CBGB contemporaries. However, Martin Rev’s electronic backdrop, churning and grinding with the unsettling hum of a malfunctioning appliance that plagues insomniac nights, instead evokes a uniquely modern vision of damnation: not the fiery inferno of biblical descriptions, but a gray, wearying static of perpetual despair. “Frankie Teardrop” is a harrowing and definitively creepy song that captures a uniquely urban and modern form of dread.
Throbbing Gristle, “Hamburger Lady” (1978)
Ever the fetishists of the grotesque, English noise/art collective Throbbing Gristle reached peak body horror with “Hamburger Lady,” a standout track from their 1978 album D.O.A: The Third and Final Report of Throbbing Gristle. The lyrics are directly sourced (and spliced) from a written account by artist Blaster Al Ackerman – a Vietnam medic and later a burn unit nurse. Ackerman’s account described caring for a woman severely burned from her waist to her face. “Hamburger Lady,” Genesis P-Orridge repeats deadpan, “She’s dying, she is burned from the waist up.” Even more skin-crawling than the words is the ominous, mechanical whirring sound, suspended against a backdrop of clinical white noise. “Hamburger Lady” is a visceral and profoundly creepy song that confronts listeners with stark and disturbing imagery through sound and spoken word.
The Birthday Party, “Dead Joe” (1982)
“Welcome to the car smash,” howls a ferocious, 25-year-old Nick Cave. “Dead Joe” is a scuzzy, chaotic track about a car wreck, possibly around Christmas (indicated by Cave’s ho-ho-ho-ing), so gruesome that you “can’t tell the girls from the boys anymore” – a striking, if unsettling, metaphor for London’s post-punk scene. Co-written by Cave and his then-girlfriend Anita Lane, the song interpolates Southern Gothic elements into a churning, cartoonish art-rock sound. Though The Birthday Party disbanded just a year later, they significantly influenced gothic rock by merging disparate strands of blues and rockabilly to create an eerie effect. “Dead Joe” is a raw and intensely creepy song capturing a sense of grotesque carnival and macabre humor.
Bruce Springsteen, “Nebraska” (1982)
Just another Springsteen song about a boy, a car, and a girl, right? Except this time, the driver offering to whisk his girl away from her town of “losers” is Charlie Starkweather, the real-life spree killer who terrorized the American West for two months in the late Fifties with his “pretty baby,” 14-year-old Caril Ann Fugate. Bruce Springsteen had previously given voice to desperate souls, but those were typically good people facing hardship. He had never before sung about figures like these tramps. His drawl takes on a chillingly sociopathic edge, while his harmonica scrapes like a rusty weathervane atop an abandoned barn. When Starkweather’s captors demand to know his motives for such cruelty, we arrive at a moment familiar to horror movie fans – the point where a psychotherapeutic explanation is sought. Starkweather’s flat, shrug-like rationale: “There’s just a meanness in this world.” “Nebraska” is a stark and disturbing portrait, making it one of Springsteen’s and the genre’s most creepy songs.
Metallica, “One” (1989)
While Metallica were underground pioneers throughout the early Eighties, they achieved mainstream breakthrough in 1989 with “One,” a single centered on a quadriplegic soldier pleading for death. “When we were writing the Master of Puppets album, James [Hetfield] came up with the idea – what it would be like if you were in this situation where you were sort of a living consciousness, like a basket case, where you couldn’t reach out and communicate with anyone around you,” Lars Ulrich explained. “You had no arms, no legs, couldn’t obviously see, hear or speak.” They revisited this concept in late 1987 when their managers introduced them to Dalton Trumbo’s antiwar novel and film Johnny Got His Gun, which recounts the agonizing experience of Joe Bonham, a patriotic American soldier in World War I who awakens to find a landmine has robbed him of his limbs, eyes, ears, and most of his mouth – yet his mind remains fully functional. He eventually headbangs Morse code on his pillow, begging his doctors to end his life. For Metallica, this narrative – set against machine-gun thrash riffs for nearly eight minutes – became an unlikely Top 40 hit, bolstered by an unforgettable music video featuring footage from the film and a Grammy Award win. “One” is a powerful and profoundly creepy song that uses the intensity of thrash metal to explore themes of suffering and despair.
PJ Harvey, “Down By The Water” (1995)
A tale delivered by a bog witch of the highest order. In “Down By The Water,” the lead single from her 1995 album To Bring You My Love, Polly Jean Harvey transforms into an alluring, filicidal mother from a swampy underworld, beckoning her drowned daughter back from the river. The music video depicts Harvey undulating to a sinister cha-cha rhythm and thrashing underwater in a red satin dress. She recounted to Spin the genuine struggle to surface due to the weight of her heavy black wig. The chorus plays on the otherwise innocuous “Salty Dog Blues,” an American standard first recorded by New Orleans legend Papa Charlie Jackson: “Little fish, big fish swimming in the water,” Harvey whispers, “Come back here and give me my daughter.” “Down By The Water” is a darkly seductive and undeniably creepy song that blends folk elements with unsettling lyrical themes and Harvey’s captivating persona.
Scott Walker, “Farmer In The City” (1995)
The low drone that initiates Scott Walker’s 1995 track “Farmer In The City” merely hints at the stark horror to come. The pop idol turned experimental miserablist possesses a voice that transcends simple descriptors like “haunting” or “funereal” – it is a precisely calibrated moan with a distinctive vibrato. His bleak and experimental music of the past two decades has utilized his voice and somber worldview to arresting effect. “Farmer in the City” might be the closest he has come to a pop song in his later period, though it remains profoundly harrowing. Over a tense, sparse arrangement by the Sinfonia of London, Walker wails his abstract interpretation of Italian film director and intellectual Pier Paolo Pasolini’s final thoughts (Pasolini was murdered in 1975). “Paulo take me with you/It was the journey of a life,” he murmurs near the song’s conclusion, a fleeting moment of regretful self-reflection that speaks to the underlying horror of not knowing when one’s end will arrive. “Farmer In The City” is a subtly terrifying and profoundly creepy song that explores mortality and despair with Walker’s unique vocal delivery and unsettling musical landscape.
Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, “Song of Joy” (1996)
Nearly every Nick Cave song carries a sense of unease; few artists have dedicated themselves to the grim and macabre as intensely as the Australian Bad Seeds frontman. In the mid-Nineties, he embarked on writing and recording the aptly titled album Murder Ballads, whose tracks claimed the lives of countless fictional victims. Its lugubrious lead track, initially conceived as a sequel to Cave’s Milton-inspired soundtrack favorite “Red Right Hand,” recounts the unflinching story of a man who meets a “sweet and happy” girl named Joy. They marry, but one day he discovers her “bound with electrical tape, in her mouth a gag/She’d been stabbed repeatedly and stuffed into a sleeping bag.” The killer also murdered the narrator’s three other daughters. By the song’s end, it’s implied the narrator might know more than he reveals. “They never caught the man,” Cave sings. “He’s still on the loose.” “Song of Joy” is a brutally honest and deeply creepy song, showcasing Cave’s mastery of narrative and macabre themes.
Diamanda Galás, “25 Minutes to Go” (1998)
Diamanda Galás’ legendary four-octave vocal range precedes her, but in her 1998 cover of Shel Silverstein’s 1962 novelty song “25 Minutes to Go,” her voice penetrates in more nuanced ways. While Johnny Cash’s versions (1965 and 1968 at Folsom Prison) played with the song’s dark humor about a death row inmate, Galás’ rendition drains the air from the cell, transforming her into a spectral Mary Surratt figure. Her meandering piano accompaniment is almost feline, initiating the 25-minute countdown with a jarring, circus-like stomp that gradually winds down to a slow, tinkling of keys. Galás emphasizes the song’s more desolate lines. “Now here comes a preacher to save my soul/With 13 minutes to go,” she sings as if her lungs are filling with fluid. Instead of the folk versions’ campy ending (“One more minute to go/And now I’m swinging and here I go!”), Galás’ voice sheds its final layer, achieving a ghastly effect that underscores the tragedy beneath the comedy. As evident on her blues covers album Malediction and Prayer, Galás pays homage to both Maria Callas’ tormented arias and the tradition of stark murder ballads. Galás’ “25 Minutes to Go” is a chilling and profoundly creepy song that strips away any humor to reveal the raw tragedy at its core.
Tom Waits, “What’s He Building?” (1999)
This dramatic monologue, narrated from the perspective of a nosy neighbor, unfolds against a backdrop of eerie sound effects – muted metallic clangs, low-budget electronic flutters – that would be the envy of any haunted house designer. Tom Waits, no stranger to creepiness (Francis Ford Coppola cast him as the bug-eating Renfield in his Dracula adaptation), wheezes through the lyrics as if shining a flashlight under his chin to terrify nervous scouts at a campfire. The repeated intonation, “What’s he building in there?” with each emphasis on “building” tinged with worried compulsion, ultimately makes the narrator sound more suspicious than the reclusive loner he’s observing. This perception shifts in the unsettling coda, where we finally hear the whistling emanating from the eccentric builder’s home ourselves. “What’s He Building?” is a masterfully crafted and deeply creepy song that uses atmosphere and suggestion to build suspense and unease.
Tori Amos, “’97 Bonnie And Clyde” (2001)
Eminem’s “’97 Bonnie And Clyde” was a disturbingly upbeat revenge fantasy where the bleached-blonde MC detailed a father-daughter trip to the beach, hinting that “Mama,” in the trunk, wasn’t a willing participant. Tori Amos’s reimagining for her 2001 covers album Strange Little Girls amplifies the American gothic elements with horror-movie strings, cheap-synth beats, and a crucial shift in perspective. Her strangled vocal delivery and maternal tenderness make the monologue sound as if it’s coming from the victim as life bleeds out of her. “‘Bonnie & Clyde’ is a song that depicts domestic violence very accurately, right on the money,” Amos told MTV in 2001. “I did not align with the character that he represents. There was one person who definitely wasn’t dancing to this thing, and that’s the woman in the trunk. And she spoke to me… [She] grabbed me by the hand and said, ‘You need to hear this how I heard it.’” Amos’s version of “’97 Bonnie And Clyde” transforms it into a haunting and profoundly creepy song by giving voice to the silenced victim and highlighting the horror of domestic violence.
Eminem, “Kim” (2000)
One of rap’s most chilling tracks, Eminem’s “Kim” presents a rhyme-for-rhyme recreation of the moment an abusive relationship turns deadly. Written and released during the peak toxicity of his relationship with then-wife Kim Scott, the rapper murders Kim’s husband and stepson while verbally assaulting her from her home to a car and finally to the location where he ends her life. He screams throughout the entire song, even mimicking Kim’s voice to represent her rebuttals. “If I was her, I would have ran when I heard that shit,” mentor Dr. Dre told Rolling Stone in 1999. “It’s over the top – the whole song is him screaming. It’s good, though. Kim gives him a concept.” “Kim” is a brutally intense and undeniably creepy song that showcases Eminem’s raw aggression and disturbing narrative abilities.
Khanate, “Commuted” (2003)
In metal, the term “extreme” often denotes a subgenre rather than a measure of actual intensity. However, the music of now-defunct NYC quartet Khanate, created in the early 2000s, genuinely lived up to the description, reaching rare levels of forbidding bleakness. “The music is pure structural experimentation and blatant attempts at uneasy mood alteration through dissonance and temporal slack,” explained guitarist Stephen O’Malley (also of Sunn O))) in 2001. In practice, this translates to metal stretched and abstracted into agonizingly tense epics like the 19-minute behemoth “Commuted.” O’Malley’s dissonant chords toll softly, and Tim Wyskida’s bass drum thumps calmly, as vocalist Alan Dubin shrieks what sounds like a real-time account of losing one’s mind: “My God/The smiles/The sneezes/The talking…”. When the full band finally erupts into a series of blunt, stumbling climaxes, the impact is akin to Danny Torrance’s horrific glimpse of the twins in the Overlook Hotel hallway in The Shining. “Commuted” is an intensely disturbing and profoundly creepy song that pushes the boundaries of extreme metal to evoke psychological breakdown.
Sufjan Stevens, “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” (2005)
Sufjan Stevens’ ambitious Illinois album explored various moments in the state’s history, including the haunting tale of Seventies serial killer John Wayne Gacy, Jr. – a.k.a. “the Killer Clown” – who buried the bodies of 26 teenage boys he sexually assaulted and murdered in his home’s crawl space. “I felt insurmountable empathy not with his behavior but with his nature, and there was nothing I could do to get around confessing that, however horrifying that sounds,” Stevens explained in an interview around the album’s release. He further noted Gacy as a foil to more optimistic Illinois figures like Abraham Lincoln and Carl Sandburg. Stevens’ subdued musical style – softly singing over muted guitar plucking – makes his almost tender empathy for Gacy all the more chilling. “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” is a disturbingly empathetic and profoundly creepy song that explores the darkness within human nature with unsettling tenderness.
Haxan Cloak, “Miste” (2013)
As Haxan Cloak, Bobby Krlic has earned critical acclaim for music that pulsates like underground techno but possesses tense, nail-biting, stomach-churning textures reminiscent of slasher movie foley work. While his breakthrough album Excavation is filled with ominous slurps, rumbles, and throbs, “Miste” is arguably the scariest, primarily due to its (spoiler alert!) opening with a classic jump scare. Once the scream hits at the beginning, it loops and echoes, embedding itself into the track’s fabric before giving way to alarm-like waves. “I don’t find darkness depressing. Actually, I find it quite uplifting and cathartic,” Krlic told The Quietus. “There are certain points where I challenge myself and try and make myself feel as uncomfortable as I possibly can. And that doesn’t come down to me being a dark person; it’s like a kind of adrenaline rush.” “Miste” is a sonically unsettling and intensely creepy song that uses electronic textures and jump scares to create a visceral sense of dread.
Wolf Eyes, “Asbestos Youth” (2015)
Detroit noise terrorists Wolf Eyes have spent nearly two decades unleashing scorched distortion, throat-shredding screams, and shovel-dragging slasher noise across over 250 releases. However, they reached a new level of homegrown terror with their most recent Third Man Records album, I Am a Problem: Mind in Pieces. They’ve toned down the yowl for a more dead-eyed, haunting, and desolate atmosphere, filled with stray scuzz and whining woodwinds. As John Olson explained to Pop Matters: “It’s not as dystopian as our other records… We’re older guys and Jim [Baljo], the newest guy in the band, is a laid back rocker and you know we’re all hippies by heart. We didn’t feel the need to annihilate everything in our path as much. You say more with less, you know? You get older and you observe more and attack less.” “Asbestos Youth” might not overtly attack, but it uneasily creeps like a John Carpenter soundtrack for hiding in a tool shed. “Asbestos Youth” is a subtly menacing and profoundly creepy song that demonstrates Wolf Eyes’ evolution into a more nuanced form of sonic terror.
