There's no right way to get to heaven, just as there's no right way to get to hell. There are quite a few wrong ways to get to heaven, but there are a million different ways that one can get to either place. It might be what makes life so interesting. It might be the only thing that makes life so interesting. Every choice made plays a part in getting to that final address. We operate under the assumption that one thing will point us one way and something the opposite of it will take us a different way. There doesn't appear to be too much in the way of gray area. If there is, you can likely chalk that one up into the hell column. There's a whole lot of coveting that goes toward getting to that good place, or that first choice. A lot of coveting goes into the choices that lead to one never getting there. These are the people who covet something momentarily thrilling that will only desert them in the end, when all of the pushing comes to shoving and the panic adds that final dimension and all of the accent strokes to the border, all those finishing touches that make the scene so scenic.
Australia's The Growl finds that the exploration of sinners and those whose only purpose is to just not become one of the many sinners that they've been reading, seeing and hearing about is wild with intrigue. It's that hovering thought of eternal damnation that can either spook or tempt folks. So many play chicken with it, believing what they will about the authenticity of such a place - all the while holding it in their heads that they're fucked if it's there. There's a son in one of these Growl songs who howls out to his father, almost hysterically asking if he's going to hell - perhaps after considerable analysis has been done on his record. He knows what's been written about him in that fine print, in those details that stick to him like lukewarm tar. He doesn't know what's to become of him, but he sure knows what he's done. He's not sure which gate he'll be standing in front of when his time comes.
The Growl take us into these murky lives, where the inclinations seem to be predominantly good, but the tangents and the breakdowns are there too. People walk about with bear traps on their wrists and that's nothing more than a souvenir from a time when they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it wasn't the first time it happened from the looks of those scarred wrists. Add enough of those times up - all the times they've clutched their gold and all of the times that they've played host to the dark spirits - and the paranoia can feel like a casket stacked on a chest.