There will always be something special about vulnerable music. Listeners can truly connect to the songs when they can relate to some of the realities that life has to offer. Our recent discovery Late Stage Crush puts all the feelings on the table for us to get into our own emotions.
We caught up with the country-noir duo to get a little deeper into what they are doing as their record High Noon Divorce has been picking up steam. Enjoy the interview here:
First off, how did the name Late Stage Crush come to be?
The name “Late Stage Crush” came out of a conversation about how different love looks as you get older. There’s a lot of music and media that centers on the rush of first love—the honeymoon phase, the butterflies—but that’s not the full picture. As you grow up, relationships carry more history, more context. You’ve been hurt before, you’ve hurt other people. Attraction doesn’t feel weightless anymore; it feels layered, complicated. We were interested in that—what it means to still feel longing or infatuation even when you know better. A “late stage crush” isn’t naive. It’s bittersweet. You feel everything, but you’re aware of the cost.
How did the two of you connect to start creating music together?
We met in 2023 through mutual friends in a sort of roundabout, modern way—one of those group hangs that turns into a longer conversation. What stood out right away was that we had really different influences, but similar instincts. One of us would reference a 2000s country ballad, the other a sad-girl synth track, and somehow it all made sense. We started trading voice memos and lyric scraps, just casually at first. But it snowballed fast—like, “Wait, is this a thing?” kind of fast. Once we realized we were writing from similar places emotionally, even if the sounds varied, it became obvious this wasn’t just a one-off collaboration.
Describe your sound in an interesting way?
Our sound is what happens when vulnerability meets a little bit of swagger. It’s melodic storytelling rooted in heartache, but it doesn’t wallow—there’s tension, restraint, even a wink sometimes. You might catch echoes of country, alt-pop, or torch songs, but genre isn’t the point. We’re more interested in capturing the emotional aftermath—the quiet devastation after the door closes, the clarity that only comes once the dust settles. These are songs for the late bloomers, the ones who’ve loved hard and lived to write about it.
Which artists have had the biggest influence on Late Stage Crush?
We pull from a pretty wide spectrum—everything from Kacey Musgraves and Phoebe Bridgers to Fleetwood Mac and Patsy Cline. There’s something about artists who aren’t afraid to be emotionally exposed, but still in control of the craft, that really resonates with us. We love storytelling that feels lived-in. Even when it’s polished, it still has grit. You’ll also hear echoes of 2000s indie and early Taylor Swift—not just in sound, but in the way those songs documented very specific moments and made them universal. We’re less interested in genre allegiance and more in that feeling of, “God, I’ve been there.”
How does a song come together for you? What is the songwriting process?
Most songs start with Susan—usually a lyric or a verse that already has a pulse to it. She writes from a place that’s very internal, very lived-in. There’s usually a strong emotional core already there by the time we sit down together. From there, it becomes a collaboration in tone—figuring out how the music can carry what the lyrics are doing. Sometimes we lean into restraint, sometimes we let it swell. It’s about building a sound that doesn’t just accompany the words, but deepens them. The layers—production, harmony, arrangement—they’re all in service of that original emotional hit.
Have a listen to “Someone Said My Name” by Late Stage Crush
Tell us about your debut record High Noon Divorce?
High Noon Divorce is a breakup record, but it’s not about the break—it’s about the reckoning. The songs live in that strange, raw space where love has already ended, but the performance of it is still playing out. There’s drama, obviously—we leaned into Western imagery and old-country tension—but at its core, the record is about what happens when the story you’ve built with someone starts to fall apart in daylight. It’s bitter in places, but it’s also strangely tender. Some of the songs are letters we never sent. Some are the lines we wish we’d said. It’s not a concept album in the traditional sense, but the themes—standoff, surrender, survival—run through every track like a shared heartbeat.
What do you hope the listeners take away from your music?
If something in our music makes someone feel less alone in their mess, that’s the win. We write about the parts of relationships that don’t make the highlight reel: the power shifts, the unsaid things, the aftermath. It’s not always pretty, and it’s not supposed to be. But if a line hits hard enough that someone rewinds it, sits with it—that’s the kind of connection we care about.
What does the future look like for Late Stage Crush?
We’re not in a rush to chase trends or polish things for the algorithm. The plan is to keep making songs that feel urgent to us—even if they’re quiet, even if they take their time. We’re experimenting with new textures, telling different kinds of stories, and figuring out how to bring that to the stage in a way that still feels intimate. The future isn’t some five-year plan—it’s the next song we can’t stop thinking about. And right now, that’s more than enough.
