Fireworks bursting over a city that banned them is a sight that stirs the soul, at first glance. On July Fourth, in notoriously red-tape LA, what could be more American? 

That was the sentiment on X and elsewhere, where revelers applauded the display. Given the occasion and political cues, the reaction makes sense — and come on, who doesn’t love fireworks?

In a region famous for crushing taxes and inflated home prices, far-left grandstanding and tolerance for brazen crime, it’s hard not to see the red, white and blue clusters as symbolic pushback. 

On the ground, however, Angelenos tell a different story. In neighborhoods where illegally stashed, professional grade fireworks whistle skyward and set off car alarms for days or weeks before, the reality is frightening — more like “The Purge” than “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.”

For those wary of dangerous, airborne fireworks going off at close range and with no warning, the Fourth turns block after block into no-go zones. Narrow streets turned launch sites become impassable. Rapid takeoffs chop the air like gunfire.

Windows rattle, dogs shiver, toddlers howl. Blown tubes and flash powder coat yards and roofs. Calls to the LA County Sheriff go answered, but nobody comes — they are swamped with calls and stretched thin as it is. And year after year, fireworks-related deaths and structure fires make the news. 

Some shrug it off. But for others, it’s fireworks hell. Another symptom of what’s already become LA’s defining feature through the 2020’s — Wild West lawlessness. 

To that end, SoCal’s mayhem is no community protest, even if framing that way gets clicks. Beyond the shared knowledge that there’s safety in numbers, the fireworks shows are not coordinated. Secretive until they act, participants don’t warn nearby residents in advance. Where they are simply house guests at a party, they don’t know the neighbors and certainly don’t care.

Neither, and aside from the grand occasion, are said shows patriotic. One illegal fireworks display out of thousand might start with a reading from the Declaration of Independence or “Civil Disobedience,” but not most. Rather, the common motive is thrill seeking, with the tang of defying authority.  

If that motive isn’t clear enough, the aftermath cements it. On July 5, with driveways, sidewalks and trampolines littered with detritus, those who set the fireworks off aren’t around to clean up their mess. They are long gone, a force of phantom nature that blows in and out like the Santa Anas. 

Powerful, illegal fireworks aren’t a last resort, since residents have many options. This year, LA County featured six professionally-handled fireworks shows, several in city limits. Add another four to five shows apiece in neighboring Orange, Riverside, San Bernardino and Ventura counties, and there’s no shortage of high-caliber spirit. Smaller cities like Lakewood, Compton and a handful of LA’s unincorporated neighborhoods have long allowed consumer grade fireworks — the kind that fizz, spin and crackle but stay close to the ground. 

The criminal element behind the chaos is even darker. Come the Fourth, fireworks stands dot the Southland’s boulevards, parking lots and unincorporated corridors. Not always legit but widely approved, they don’t sell the fireworks that sail overhead and shatter with a concussive boom. 

Illegal, airborne, often homemade fireworks come from Mexico or Nevada. Smuggled across state lines, they are stashed in houses in great quantities next to guns, marijuana, cocaine, meth and even IEDs. Weeks ago, Pasadena police seized some 10,000 pounds from one house tied to a man from Nevada. In 2024, Gardena Police made the biggest bust to date with 165,000 pounds of fireworks in a warehouse. 

For street gangs, and by no stretch of the imagination cartels, this cottage industry means tens of millions in profit. But those profits wouldn’t be made without the perception of lawlessness. From the Valley to the South Bay, from the Westside to the Eastside — and from Skid Row to multi-million dollar enclaves — everyone knows it. 

For their part, if LA’s political class had known that the COVID-era ban on July Fourth gatherings a few years ago would spark immense pushback, and mark the birth of today’s fireworks hydra, they might have acted with restraint. While police do their best to ramp up enforcement, the message across 500 square miles is still clear enough — and it’s clear across other cities where progressive laxity precedes chaos. 

There’s no cavalry coming, so anything goes.

Until that message changes, more Angelenos will spend their Fourth of July, a day they and firework-loving patriots across the country should all be celebrating, hunkered down. 

C.M. Miller is a playwright and professional kids’ writer based in Los Angeles. You can find him on X @CrocodileReads and on Substack. 

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