Every Danny Dwyer song starts with him screaming at a wall. Some end up conjuring Missouri River jamborees. Stationed Chevys blast their amber high beams to keep the day alive. Kids from drive-thru towns like his brave the rough undercurrents, confidence Super Starring their skin into invincibility cloaks (“Brokenhearted”). Others, sung softer than a reverie, sound like the radioactive ash of half-lifed relationships fading away (“Crest”). They all originate from top-of-the-lung throat-scraping — an inconceivable waterfall of raw ideas that, like Houdini, Danny manages to make magic out of. LOSERS, Danny’s debut double EP — a love letter and a goodbye note to his rural stomping grounds — reflects the effortlessness that 10,000 hours affords. Danny lets the contradictions roll and lifts off, straddling a sonic line somewhere between truth and magic, between Route 66 and a glistening metropolis in decay. He spins coming of age stories that have one foot in Friday Night Lights and another in Harmony Korine’s Kids. He longs for the $4 meals at Steak n’ Shake yet feels pride in paying for overpriced west coast drinks without blinking — the guy who once eyed rich kids with contempt on the path to becoming one. He flirts with self-annihilation on a Tuesday and pledges lifelong support to others on a Friday. What may sound like an unreliable narrator — a walking paradox — is actually a prerequisite to give the full picture. He mirrors our world. This freewheeling, laser-focused, selfless, narcissistic, motorbike-driving, dress-wearing, pressure-cooker goofball who spits out hooks in his sleep and builds automated spliff rollers after two hours googling electrical engineering terms has every AM/FM radio in his sights. This is Danny Dwyer.