SHSHA-EP-Jawline-THUMP copy

A prelude to The Ascent:

⠚⠁⠺⠇⠊⠝⠑ *
1 | Burn_The_Fuck_Down (5:56)
2 | Jawline (4:28)
3 | Medellín (4:58)
4 | Camera_Obscura (3:00)

Vibration: Root & Sacral Resonance; Solar Plexus Diminishing
Location: Basement of the Sacred Shaman SHSHA’s Palace
Time: 12am-4am
Accompaniment: Marijuana, MDMA, Cocaine, Ketamine

All tracks produced, recorded, mixed and mastered by // [SHSHA] in Wetlands – Tampa, FL & The Castle – Brooklyn, NY
Vocal Appearance by @morg777 on Burn_The_Fuck_Down

Written by J.W. Higley

Central Parallel – Early 2015

Matsu, Sharesh, Amber and Cade strike glare on the bouncer. After FDNY shut down TresaCore they’ve taxied five blocks, queued for 45+ and cut 1/2 a gram into a four-way split.

They lit. They fade. On one.

$45 though the gate, $7 coat check, stair through, bar queue, $35 minimum, 15-minute wait.

More lines, anticipation for the peak. 100-over capacity. A filled-floor flows on that four-on-the-floor, pushing them into the Sun Room. There, four walls and the sky, veiled with mirrors, reflect infinite sprays of artificial light and life.

Amber’s always the first to up. Expression somewhere between cross-eyed bliss and a stroked out Oni mask. A master of the tooth-clinched, side-shout she works through,“Sharesh whatduuyuwaan? Shareesh? Reeeeesh…the fuck?”

See now, Resh and Cade are already off working game. No time for the queue. Cutting shapes around some new, they flux and flow between, around and into—spraying verb.

“You up?” Resh gives her.

“Getting there,” she flecks, “you?”

“Jawline’s cut as fuck, ya see me?”

“Shoot,” she shews, “that like a five-o’clock shadow, boo.”

“Time to edge on then, you down to brow up?”

“Always,” reply the new.

Matsu already swarmed out with some lean ass dofas, so Amber’s on look. Three tequilas to fill the time and tab, she’s pushed into the human flow and onto that main floor. 132dBA: the red light flaring. “We’re going off tonight,” some randos scream at her. Underwater, Amber looks back and shoots that Oni shit at ’em: “uryaaaaaa!”

Resh and Cade pass on another current, making their way out to cop.  Push through the smokers and chatter. Peep for the guy.


“Yea yea yea,” Reesh perks. “Need at least 300 Cade. I ain’t fucking round with no weak ass j-line.”

“They a point a piece,” the shadow speaks. “20 per. Make it easy.”

“Shit,” Cade maths. “Ten then.”


They keep sharp. Switch smooth.

“These stamped?”

“They call ‘em Superman, cause they’re super, man” the shadow adverts. “Don’t worry, they’ll make that jaw edge deeper than the Grand Canyon bruv.”

Matsu gets her’s gratis. Always. Sauved out like that. College degreed up, paying off. Enterprise. She’s posted in the back of the Sun Room by now.  Sweat pours from her and her new boys. They’ve been cutting for hours working off that lift, so they’re on that chill mode. Resh and Cade sync back with theirs. New vs New. No drama.

“They treating you right,” Resh barks over beat.

“It’s good. Starting to bore though,” Matsu jabs.

“Here’s next then,” Boy#2 says, lifting powder.

Resh owns that 300. No fucking around. Cade follows. As gentlemen, their New get theirs too.

Back to the infinite of the Sun the jawline flexing full. Depths measured with that blow. Their New carves down their caved out cheeks quick before the sweat cakes it. Cade’s line hella edged. “Just a little bit more,” Resh tastes. “Keep sharp.”

Minutes to hours, the pattern keeps them balanced.

“Where’s Amber?” Matsu shouts.


Catch the flow back to the main floor, tossing bowers with ease. “Survive and stive mother fucker,” Resh jaws. Amplified.

Amber’s been puppeting on the wave. Lifted beyond. When she sees Cade the ground comes to her. Face to floor, redline warming. Comfortable here.

“I like it here,” she pleads. “Staying, no!”

“Lift with my J,” Resh boasts.

Break through to the stair. Ten million degrees. Gravity takes Amber’s stomach.  Her tongue can’t catch it, her legs and mouth turn fluid.

No matter though. Resh and Cade brute all day.

“We’re taking her home, we’re taking her home,” Matsu mantras.

“Oh shit,” they laugh. “Your teeth girl!”

“Battle scars!” Amber boasts, shooting a gaping smile.

“Thursday at Stella Social is going to be off,” the new invite.