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Award-Winning NYC Artist, Producer, and Filmmaker Richard Oliver Jr. Confronts the Harsh Reality of Handgun Violence With His Song and Film, “These Sad Times.”

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Award-Winning NYC Artist, Producer, and Filmmaker Richard Oliver Jr. Confronts the Harsh Reality of Handgun Violence With His Song and Film, “These Sad Times.”

Imagine an innocent kid waking up every day, dressing up for school, taking their breakfast, and hopping on the school bus and going to school with the looming feeling, maybe somewhat inconceivable to them, that it may actually be their last day at school because a lunatic somewhere could get any kind of gun he wishes just because he can, get into a school, and start shooting anyone indiscriminately. As you let the thoughts haunt you, just remember this is the reality America has been confronted with, and yet, it seems the issue remains unresolved.

This is a reality that award-winning filmmaker, artist, producer, and actor Richard Oliver Jr. has tried to wrap his head around, but every time he ends up feeling deeply frustrated with the USA, its government, and society at large.

How the most powerful nation on earth has failed to contain one of its single greatest threats, gun violence, remains a mystery to those observing from abroad and its citizens, including individuals like Richard Oliver Jr.

Something needs to change, and it is this actuality that motivated Richard Oliver Jr. to create “These Sad Times”- a reggae-conscious song and film that addresses the grave issues of gun violence and especially its colossal impact on vulnerable and innocent school-going kids.

With his pure voice that carries the raw emotions triggered by these tragic events, the hurt, and the shockwaves of gun violence, Richard takes us on a journey that confronts us with this grim reality.

The reality of innocent and vulnerable children in class, the reality that teachers, caregivers, and parents are also innocent victims; the reality of losing a dear child to gun violence!

The film delves deep into the harsh reality, visually and audibly demonstrating the devastating effects of gun violence—a single shot’s massive damage.

This is the time to act—we have to do something now to keep not only this generation safe but the future generations, lest they inherit a mad, unsafe, and atrocious world!

“These Sad Times”- the song and film—are available for streaming on major digital platforms.

Follow the attached link, subscribe to Richards’s Therhyme Impersonator channel, support this music and film, share it widely, and sign the #marchforourlives petition below it to support this cause.

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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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