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Late Stage Crush Reckons with Love’s False Gods on “The Church Ain’t Open This Late”

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Late Stage Crush Reckons with Love’s False Gods on “The Church Ain’t Open This Late”

If you’ve ever stared at a text thread like it’s a sacred scripture or mistook chaos for chemistry, Late Stage Crush is here to tell you, you’re not alone. The Raleigh-based indie-Americana duo, known for their raw emotional honesty and stripped-down style, returns with “The Church Ain’t Open This Late,” a slow-burning, soul-scorching anthem that calls time on toxic devotion masquerading as love.

Late Stage Crush is what happens when poetic storytelling meets unfiltered emotion. Formed in 2023, the project is the brainchild of vocalist Rebecca Sunnybrook and poet-lyricist Susan Mahlburg. Their debut EP, High Noon Divorce, introduced listeners to a world where heartbreak isn’t just a wound it’s a lens for clarity. Now, with their newest single, they continue to carve out a space in modern Americana for the bruised, the brave, and the beautifully bitter.

“The Church Ain’t Open This Late” is a reckoning. Inspired partly by Taylor Swift’s “False God,” the track trades in its own liturgical metaphors to question how often we let love become a false idol. From the very first verse “Met her on a Wednesday / With her halo in her purse” we’re plunged into a twisted, whiskey-soaked chapel of a relationship. There’s no altar here, just a warped kind of worship where obsession is dressed in holiness and staying power is confused for salvation.

Sunnybrook’s delivery is restrained but simmering—like someone trying not to cry during a sermon they don’t believe in anymore. The vocals land soft but cut deep, especially when paired with lyrics like “You baptized me in bourbon / Called it holy rain / But I never asked for worship—I just asked you to stay.” That line alone is a mic drop in the middle of the track, exposing the bitter truth behind the romantic rituals we perform in the name of love.

Beauty of the song lies in its refusal to over-explain. With a minimalist arrangement that keeps the spotlight on the vocals and lyrics, “The Church Ain’t Open This Late” builds its emotional weight slowly. It’s all dusty pews, burnt coats and half-spoken gospel truths each line packing a punch without ever raising its voice. Mahlburg’s poetic touch is unmistakable, painting vivid images with just a few words: “Now the hymns are getting quiet / And the saints are unemployed.” There’s a world in that sentence a world where love has let its guard down and the only thing left is the ashtray full of broken promises.

What’s perhaps most impressive is how the song balances sadness with self-awareness. It’s not a cry for help, it’s a quiet revolution. A decision to walk away from something that felt sacred but wasn’t. By the time the outro rolls in, you’re not just mourning a relationship, you’re setting it down gently and walking out of the church with your head held high.

So if you’ve ever called something “love” when it was really just habit… or holiness when it was only heat… this song’s for you. Ready to feel something real? Stream “The Church Ain’t Open This Late” by Late Stage Crush now on Spotify.

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In Sylk McCloud’s Safeword, Bedroom R&B Meets Club Heat as Mr.24 Adds Grit to Bubu’s Midnight Pulse

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In Sylk McCloud’s Safeword, Bedroom R&B Meets Club Heat as Mr.24 Adds Grit to Bubu’s Midnight Pulse

Rising bedroom R&B crooner Sylk McCloud, hailing from SE Washington, DC, turns up the temperature on his latest single, “Safeword.” It’s a slow burner built for the club, where glossy modern R&B melts into a little hip hop swagger. BuBu The Producer keeps the track sleek and plush, while featured rapper and emcee Mr.24 slides in with a verse that sharpens the edge.

Right away, “Safeword” lands in that moody late night pocket. The instrumental is velvet smooth, but it moves with a steady, hypnotic groove that nudges you closer. Sylk sings like he’s speaking directly across a dark room, soft in tone yet sure of himself. That push and pull is the point, a mix of vulnerability and control, desire and hesitation, all held in tension without spilling into melodrama.

The song takes its cues from the “Shades of Grey” film series, leaning into trust, fantasy, and the charged negotiation that comes with intimacy. Sylk makes the hook the centerpiece, letting the melody do the seducing even as the lyrics get bold:

“Tell me you’re sexy, all positions go
Are you ready for submission
Fifty shades is what I’m giving
Satisfaction all positions
Only one thing missing
Tell me your safeword…”

Those lines set the mood with a teasing confidence that never feels rushed. The chorus is restrained and tempting, built to linger rather than hit and disappear. Sylk’s voice floats above the beat with a magnetic ease, so the hook sticks in your head and in your gut.

When Mr.24 arrives, the energy shifts without breaking the spell. His delivery brings a gritty smooth contrast to Sylk’s melodic glide, grounding the fantasy in something a little tougher. It’s a smart pairing. The two artists sound comfortable sharing the same space, which helps “Safeword” work in more than one setting, from a packed dance floor to a late night playlist you keep to yourself.

A lot of the track’s pull comes from the production choices. BuBu The Producer builds a lush, atmospheric soundscape that matches Sylk’s tone, leaving room for breath, for pause, for that moment before the next touch. It feels designed for slow dancing, for cruising through the city after midnight, or for setting the room’s temperature with intention.

With “Safeword,” Sylk McCloud keeps carving out his lane in contemporary R&B, blending emotional weight with sensual confidence. The single plays like a small, cinematic scene, intimate on purpose, polished without feeling distant.

“Safeword” is now available on all major streaming platforms.

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Killem KD Brings Delta Grit to a One Take Freestyle That Sounds Like a Warning and a Promise

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Killem KD Brings Delta Grit to a One Take Freestyle That Sounds Like a Warning and a Promise

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Some artists slide into a scene and hope the room makes space. Killem KD walks in like the room is already hers. Listen.

On her one take freestyle “Trouble Man (One Take),” the Mound Bayou, Mississippi native makes a clean announcement. She is here, she is ready, and she is finished waiting on permission. In about 1 minute and 25 seconds, KD delivers something that feels closer to a notice than a warm introduction, a warning shot aimed at anyone treating her like background noise.

Her intent is obvious in the way she hits each line. When she raps, “said I’m tired of waiting in corners and closets, it’s my time to shine, I can’t be quiet,” it lands like autobiography, not bravado. This is presence music, the kind that changes the temperature of a track. KD performs like she can feel eyes on her, like the tally is being kept, like silence has stopped being an option. Doubt, gatekeepers, anyone trying to flatten her momentum, they all get drowned out by the force in her voice.

The flow is slick and surgical, rooted in the South and proud of it. Every bar locks into the beat with a cadence that sounds fused, not rehearsed. You hear finesse, then grit right behind it, swagger sharpened by hunger. She stays patient. She doesn’t chase the pocket. She lives in it. The whole thing reads like instinct, not homework.

The video sharpens that feeling. Filmed guerrilla-style outside an old hospital building, it strips the moment to essentials: Killem KD, a mic, and whatever the day gives her. No crew lights. No studio polish. No safety net. Just daylight, concrete, and conviction. A dangling silver microphone adds a throwback touch, nodding to a time when you could measure an MC by breath control and bars.

That location matters, too. Hospitals are where people show up broken, hurting, trying to make it through. KD stands just outside that threshold and spits like she’s the diagnosis, unavoidable, contagious, impossible to dismiss. She closes her eyes at points, letting the performance swing between confession and confrontation. The result feels street-level and cinematic at once, early freestyle energy filtered through quiet urban melancholy.

“Trouble Man (One Take)” doesn’t lean on spectacle. It leans on certainty. KD knows what she brings, and she moves like her moment isn’t on the way. It’s here. This puts her in the lane of artists who demand recognition because the work leaves no other option.

Born and raised in the Delta, Killem KD carries southern soul, raw storytelling, and fearless energy into every bar. She’s pushing to put Mississippi on the map, and a clip like this makes that goal feel less like ambition and more like trajectory.

No edits.
No excuses.
No permission needed.
This is Killem KD, trouble in the best way possible.

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Angele Lapp Brings Quiet Conviction to Hale’s “Kung Wala Ka”, Turning a Beloved Breakup Song Into Something Personaltitl

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Angele Lapp Brings Quiet Conviction to Hale’s "Kung Wala Ka", Turning a Beloved Breakup Song Into Something Personaltitl

Fast rising 18 year old Filipino artist Angele Lapp steps into familiar territory with a cover of Hale’s “Kung Wala Ka”, and comes out sounding surprisingly sure of herself.

The performance opens gently. Soft keys set the room, and then her voice arrives, smooth, clear, and almost weightless at first. There’s a calm confidence in how she phrases each line, the kind that can make you assume you’re listening to someone who has been doing this for a long time. Then you remember she’s 18, still finding her footing in a crowded music business. Vocally, though, she already sounds like she knows where she wants to go. The control is there, the presence is there, and the emotion never feels forced.

“Kung Wala Ka” has long been a staple for fans of the Filipino alternative band Hale, a breakup song that lingers because it understands how messy moving on can be. The lyrics sit in longing and absence, that hollow uncertainty of imagining life without the person you built it around. In Lapp’s hands, the song stays true to that ache. She doesn’t drain it of what made it resonate in the first place. Instead, she leans in and shapes it around her own voice, and the result feels both respectful and personal. By the time she reaches the bigger moments, she’s fully inside it, and she really does knock it out the park.

The title translates to “If You’re Not Here”, or, “If You Weren’t Here”, and that simple idea carries the whole performance. At 3 minutes and 54 seconds, the cover has a lived in quality, like she’s telling you a story she’s been carrying for a while. It feels close up, almost neighborly, like she’s singing beside you rather than at you.

The video matches that intimacy. It’s a well lit music studio setup, clean and uncluttered. Angele wears headphones, focused, locked into the track as she sings straight into the mic. You can hear how carefully she balances the notes. She starts soft, holds back, and then gradually lets the emotion rise, steady as an undercurrent, guided by the instrumental swell.

The arrangement does a lot of quiet work. Those tender keys at the intro lay the foundation, and the guitar lines slide in with a light touch. Around the one minute mark, the feeling begins to lift, partly because the keys hit with a little more intensity, giving the moment a faintly cinematic edge. By about 1:27, the rhythm fully wakes up. The key driven pulse tightens, percussion and bass join in, and her voice brightens with it, wrapping around the listener in a kind of reassurance. It’s a smart build, and she rides it well.

Somewhere in that climb, it becomes clear she’s working with more than promise. The range, the power, and the sheen of her tone don’t line up with the assumptions people make about a young artist. She sounds like someone ready for bigger rooms, and she carries the song like she belongs there.

With a recent signing to Popolo Music Group and a debut album set for release in September of this year, she’s positioning herself for a real step forward. If this cover is any indication, she’s worth keeping an eye on.

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