Five O'Clock Shadows at the Edge of the Western World


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Rise and shine. And then one day you’re thirty and life tries to pass you by. Rise and shine. And the sun gives like and Injun’, and trades what dreams may come for bloodshot eyes. Just shut the blinds. Go back to sleep. Perchance to dream. Perchance to be or not to be: aye, there’s the rub. When all our friends wear a suit and tie the knot with grace and breastfeed the chubby face of their conjoined DNA… Oh, what if they’ve got it right? ’Cause then one day you’re thirty, your bed feels like a grave. I can’t get up today. And the indent in her pillow is all the proof you have of dreams she was willing to… Leave behind your troubles. Lullabye your blacks and blues. That’s what they whispered as they rocked you to sleep. And you know what they said? Well, none of it was true. ‘Cause sleep is but a thief and dreams are but a whore. Sunrise. Sunshine. And I will rise. And I will shut the blinds.
A grinding halt on the North 405. Just trying to escape, that’s when I hear you sigh: “I hate this fucking town. I hope I never come back.” You roll your window up. And it’s so plain to see, like we’re staring into the bright side of this moon. And we’re just running away in the dead of the night. But we’re stuck in reverse in a sea of crimson lights. We sit in silence. You turn the volume up. I check the rearview and see the fire trucks. We don’t say nothin’, but that says everything. And we ain’t moving… Somehow the miles, they grow between. Like the distance, the years, and all the places that we’ve been… The basements, the graves, it’s an endless pile-up of love, of hate, of midnight traffic in my guts. And it’s so obvious to me the things I once could not see. We’re just running away in the dead of the night. But we’re stuck in reverse amidst emergency lights. The lights are flashing, the siren sounds, and through the jaws of life the blood spreads thick on the ground. But we ain’t stopping. And we ain’t turning around. I’ve got my foot to the floor, head first straight into midnight traffic. No, we ain’t turning around. We ain’t stopping, no, and we ain’t turning around.
What if this was the best day of your life? Gone without you knowing in the blink of vandal eyes? Knife in hand, caution to the wind. Prowl, mauraude, slash tires, unhinge. In a cold vein world without a pulse, you’ve got to plunge the knife. Keep stabbing. Drain the blood and spill the guts… Drain my Goodyears, drain them of their life. Slash. Don’t think twice. Never once look back. Leave your stain and plunge the knife. Late for work, at a dead-end in the road. A puncture. A wound. A blessing à la mode. In a cold vein world without a pulse, you’ve got to plunge the knife. Keep stabbing. Drain the blood and eat the flesh. Sink deep your teeth and dine all through the night. Drain the blood. Spill the guts. Then plunge the knife straight into the heart of my safe little life. Of my sacred routine. I’m jealous of boys who trade day jobs for midnights and rage through the night without remorse or hindsight. But I’m a coward. I’ve slackened my spine. Pay my bills, go to school, get a job, fall in line. But I want to drink all the blood. And I want to eat all the flesh. And I want to spill all the guts. You slashed through my tire but punctured my chest.
Some they dig for praises. Some they dig for gold. Some they dig their whole damn life and dig exactly as they’re told. Some boys they find fortune. Some men find only pain. I dig because I want nothing to do with the quo that such status maintains. So give me dirt or give me death. Godspeed ye underground! Please put me six feet down.
“Go west. Die young,” she whispered soft through her Santa Ana lungs. She finds the faults, tan-lines the girls. Puts a five o’clock shadow at the edge of the western world. Her palms spring straight to heaven. Her love is a dog from hell. And the back seats that she’s shared with me, they ain’t going to well. Her cars are pooled, her earth is quaked, and her crips are drenched in bloods. And the giants swim by in blues and greys as we godbless the aqueducts. I’ve drawn a million breaths, and every single one was more asthmatic than the last. Go west. Die young. Sunburn my skin and un-requite my love. We were hand-in-hand, one last caress. We raise a toast to the valley of death. There’s a condom in her gutter, and babies in her trash. And the pigs once tried to kill a King near this westbound overpass. But I come here to watch the planes as they come and go. And she smogs my air and salts my sea and reminds me that I’m home. I’ve been cut. Trojan-horsed. Every cut cut deeper, deeper than the first. Thirsty and miserable. I guess I wasn’t made for these times. Songs to aging children come: teen creeps lost in another state of mind. And now we dance, and now we sink. When the music’s fucking over we all must bleed. Go west. Die young. Suburban homes and nausea. May grey. June gloom. Tequila sunset, I’ve been waiting for you. Fuck armageddon, ‘cause this is hell. And if you listen real close she’s got secrets to tell. Go west. Die young. Drive your five o’clock shadow straight into the western sun.


Many thanks to Jeremy Bolm and all guilty parties at Secret Voice Records, Jack Shirley, Marc Aufderstrasse, Uuchu Mochizuki, Dan Africa, Michael Martin and all at Hellfish, Max Montez, Danny Lyerla, Bridgetown DIY, Michal et al at Fluff Fest, Sean Carlson and FYF, Ramez Silyan, Tuna Turdugno, and Alvin Carrillo for all of their time, effort, and aid. Endless respect to Comadre (RIP), Glasses, Trainwreck, Birds In Row, Robotosaurus, Painted Wolves, Goodtime Boys, Letlive., Touché Amore, No Sir, Punch, Holy, Another Breath, Soul Control, Sabertooth Zombie, Holy Fever, Dogteeth, Hostage Calm, Forming, Graf Orlock, Ghostlimb, and all things Vitriol Records. Further thank you to all that attend our shows, purchase our goods, communicate with us, criticize us, and (generally) use whatever bits of free time to help us do whatever it is that we are trying to do through this band. Extra-special thanks to the human that slashed the tires of every car on my block last year during the wee hours of a Californian autumn: save me a spot in the Styx.


released January 14, 2014

All songs written by DANGERS during the staph-infected spring of 2013. Recorded, engineered, and mixed by Erol Ulug at Donald Duck Manor and other makeshift venues. Produced by equal parts Mr. Ulug and DANGERS. Cover photograph by Ricky J. Lesser. Beard photographs by Alfred Brown IV. Art direction and design by Adam Hunt.


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DANGERS Los Angeles, California

Four animals doing musical things.


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