The Hungry Night  and Impulses available on iTunes, Amazon, CDBaby, and HERE.

Contact: EveningShadeMusic@gmail.com

Impulses credits:

Written, Performed, and Produced by James Pinkstone
© 2018, Pink Cloud Productions (ASCAP)
Mixed by Kris Sampson
Mastered by Chris Griffin and Griffin Mastering, Inc.
Photo and Layout by James Pinkstone
Design by Michael Kai



The Hungry Night credits:

EveningShade is James Pinkstone and Naomi Lavender
All music/lyrics by James Pinkstone
Produced and Engineered by James Pinkstone
Mastered by Chris Griffin

"The Hungry Night," "Night Driving," "Editor," "Pretty Pony," and "What If You Were" mixed by Don McCollister
"Learning to Kill," "The Way You Run Away," "Friday Night," and "Saturday Monsters" mixed by Kris Sampson
"The Talisman Falls Into Evil Hands" and "Overdressed" mixed by James Pinkstone
Additional keys/guitars on "Friday Night" by Kris Sampson
Additional vocals on "The Hungry Night" and "Editor" by Don McCollister
Photo by Jessica Joan Pinkstone
Design & Layout by Michael Kai
All songs ©2015 Pink Cloud Productions (ASCAP)



Lyrics: The Hungry Night (Album).

All lyrics ©2015 James Pinkstone, Pink Cloud Productions (ASCAP)


Learning To Kill


Get off me. Get off me. Get off the bed. Don’t hold me to only the things I said.
Don’t call me. I’ll call you. Don’t hold your breath. 
Don’t worry, no hurry; it’s only death.

I’ll pace and talk a mile a minute, but you’ll never let me finish. 
You’ll slice open every word I say.
I still can feel the engine revving, of your ’87 Chevy, 
that first time you looked away.

Don’t hang up. Don’t hang up. Just let me say:
I’ll stop by. I don’t mind. You’re on my way.

I’m falling; I’m feeling lost in the woods. The hot love I heard of, but never could.

I would have done it all already, if I could keep my fingers steady. 
You have to kill somebody for respect.
Teach you to reach for the machete, and if your nerve tells you you’re ready, 
you’ll learn to grab it by its neck.

Get off me. Get off me. Get off the bed. Don’t hold me to only the things I said.
Don’t call me. I’ll call you. Don’t hold your breath. 
Don’t worry, no hurry; it’s only death.


The Hungry Night
It’s over by the time you go to shut the blinds. 
You thought of everything, but I can read your mind.
I’m hiding in the walls. I’m right between your thoughts.

Maybe the chardonnay and records are to blame. 
It isn’t like the way your dirty tongue would say.
I led you down the hall, I didn’t make you stay.

I was ashing in the sink. You were dressed up like the devil. 
Slithered up and asked you for a light.
I was on my second drink. You were flinching from the treble 
when we stepped into the hungry night.

Halloween 2008, I remember every quiver, 
standing in the pounding rain outside.
I could see you through your paint. I could see right to your innards. 
I knew we could keep each other dry.
And now, tearing through the crowd, after all this time, under all those shouts.
And no, say it isn’t true. Everybody else—anyone but you.

I could ask you what you think. You come back with something clever. 
Any time you’re ready we can start.
You were wearing red and pink, just in case you don’t remember. 
Do I need to tell you every part?

It’s over by the time you go to shut the blinds. 
You thought of everything, but I can read your mind.
I’m hiding in the walls. I’m right between your thoughts.

Maybe the chardonnay and records are to blame. 
It isn’t like the way your dirty tongue would say.
I led you down the hall, I didn’t make you stay.

I was ashing in the sink. You were dressed up like the devil. 
Slithered up and asked you for a light.
Barely on my second drink. You were flinching from the treble 
when we stepped into the hungry night.

And now, tearing through the crowd, after all this time, under all those shouts.
And no, say it isn’t true. Everybody else—anyone but you.


Night Driving
I thought I understood, but I could never tell. The tighter that I turned, the less my fingers felt.
I fought the memories with all my energy. I tried to tourniquet. I made a mess of it.

Don’t stop me now. Don’t slow me down. I’m on the way.
Night driving till I’m out of pills, and out of shame.

I think it follows me, still hear it in my dreams: the way the tires screamed, the smell of gasoline.
And since you froze in time, and learned to be a mime, I’m getting older while the people pass me by.

Don’t stop me now. Don’t slow me down. I’m on the way.
Night driving till I’m out of pills, and you’re to blame.

I’ve been sinking deeper in your chair, talking to a gap between the air.
Asking if, knowing now, you would shift, slow it down.

Even if you knew how, would it end like that night?

Would you still bet your life?


The Way You Run Away
I’ll keep your stomach full. I’ll keep you comfortable. But I just can’t indulge the way you run away.
I’d give my clothes to you, like I’m supposed to do; I can’t get close to you with how you run away.

I felt the tug of the air pull past me. And it was warm on the chair, just like somebody was there.
And I could tell it was you, just from the smell of the room; under the blood and perfume left.

I’m not some animal; I’m not some catapult. I’m not accountable for how you run away.
I’ll keep you company, from a couple hundred feet. What do you want from me, the way you run away?

I felt the tug of the air pull past me. And it was warm on the chair, just like somebody was there.
And I could tell it was you, just from the smell of the room; traces of hell and perfume left.

I felt the tug of the air pull past me. And it was warm on the chair, just like somebody was there.
And I can tell it was you, just by the smell of the room; under the hell and perfume.


Editor
If there’s a river there, I can pretend to know how it feels, and where it goes,
and what is true, and what is real, but never does it turn the wheel.
I’m just the editor. Editor. Editor. Whisper from the confessional,
“Editor. Editor.” Flashlights aimed at the editor.
I’m just a sampler. Scrapbooker. Fancy name for a camera.
See the page. Hear the words, and rearrange.

And somewhere off in the distance, something’s calling to me,
but I can’t make out the difference between the crags and the sea.
Somewhere up in the lighthouse, far past where I can reach,
someone’s turning the light out before I get to the beach.

I’m just the editor. Scrapbooker. Curator. Whisper from the confessional,
"Editor. Editor."  Headlights on, but I’m
still stalled out on the shoulder, waiting next to the road,
feel myself getting older, can’t quite capture the secret code.

I should have combed the beach. I should have dragged the lake.

I could have broke the lease, now what if it’s too late?

I’m just the editor. Editor. Editor. Whisper from the confessional, “Editor. Editor.”
Headlights off.


Overdressed
Why don’t you leave? Why don’t you go? You’ve been relieved; or don’t you know?
We need the space. We need the bed. Give up your place. Give us your meds.

You’d think your life was over, you’d think your pulse was slower. To think, I’d held you closer than all those other losers.

Goodbye to the old pilot, bring in some half-starved dreamer. Goodbye to the old lives, and bring in the next believer.

You’re overdressed.

Why don’t you meet me at the curb? You’ll have to leave. Haven’t you heard?
So plead your case, to keep your cot. I’ll try to listen from my yacht.

You’d think your life was over, you’d think your pulse was slower. To think, I’d held you closer than all those other losers.

Goodbye to the old pilot, bring in some half-starved dreamer. Goodbye to the old lives, and bring in the next believer.

You’re overdressed.


Pretty Pony

I’m getting by with the pretty pony. I can rely on the pretty pony. I count the time with the pretty pony the longest till August.
I tried to run, but I couldn’t hide. I tried to jump, but it wouldn’t fly. Then everything till I couldn’t try no longer. No longer.

I did my best to ignore the aching. I can’t believe how long it’s taking.
I’m getting by, getting by with the pretty pony.

I’m getting by with the pretty pony. I can rely on the pretty pony. I count the time with the pretty pony the longest till August.
The cigarette made me choke enough, until the wind had to smoke it up, until I left it poking up from the sawdust.

I couldn’t help my imagination. I can’t believe how long it’s taking.
I’m getting by, getting by with the pretty pony.

I can’t believe the timing. I can’t believe those sirens. I’m getting older riding right here.


What If You Were

Hey, mister great kisser, I heard you through the transistor. I knew you from the old picture on the scene.
You whispered, I blistered. I turned my back on my sister. I had to think that you weren’t going to leave.

So what if you were? What does it say? What if I’m good? I can behave.

So tell me, what is it worth? What does it say? What if I’m good? I can behave.

Last August, I caught this pale face in back of my faucet; one second I really thought it might be you.
I lost it, I saw this word bubble pop across it; it told me you had always been untrue.

So what if you were? What does it say? What if I’m good? I can behave.

So tell me, what is it worth? What does it say? What are the words? I can behave.


Friday Night
Three more hours on the couch, sick and bleeding from the mouth. Let’s go somewhere. Let’s go out. Let’s do what we talked about. Starting over. Taking flight. Starting after Friday night. Take it slower. Make it right. Starting after Friday night.

I’m steady. I’m ready. Just need to put my jacket on, and finish my cocktail first.
The bottles all holler each time I drag them down the lawn. The neighbors must think the worst.
The walls and the drapes can keep us from harm. So check all the locks and arm the alarm.

Spit your gum out, open wide. Time to swallow all that pride. Don’t forget your appetite. Turn the covers. Flip the light.

Starting over. Taking flight. Starting after Friday night. Take it slower. Make it right. Starting after Friday night.

I’m steady. I’m ready. Just need to put my sneakers on, and finish my cocktail first.
The bottles all holler each time I drag them down the lawn. The neighbors must think the worst.
The walls and the drapes can keep them away. Don’t answer the door. Don’t show them your face.

One more weekend on the couch, sick and bleeding from the mouth. Let’s do what we talked about. Let’s do something. Let’s go out. Starting over. Taking flight. Starting after Friday night. Take it slower. Make it right. Starting after Friday night.

I’m steady. I’m ready. Just need to put my jacket on, and finish my cocktail first.

Turn up the radio so we don’t have to speak. Let’s make some memories before we fall asleep.
If I lose them when Saturday morning’s scratching against my eyes,

an excuse to spend Saturday evening drinking and getting high.
I know what to do, but I don’t want to stand up and face the truth.

I’m in love with you, but is it enough to say it without the proof?
I’ll stand up for you.


Saturday Monsters

The stars are bright, and ours tonight. Put down the phone. Pick up your life.
I’m glad you came. It’s Saturday, and there’s so much I have to say.

Singing for a room of monsters growling in the dark. Clutching at a scarlet letter scraped into your heart.

You lost your page along the way. You found a stage. You learned to play.
You split your skull to fit the role. You lost yourself, and then control.

Playing for a room of monsters growling in the dark. Underneath a silver medal pressed against your heart.
Singing for a room of monsters growling in the dark. Clutching at a scarlet letter scraped into your heart.


All lyrics ©2015 James Pinkstone, Pink Cloud Productions (ASCAP)