There’s a late-night pulse to Lunate, a heartbeat caught between a lover’s whisper and the cold flick of a strobe. Religion of Heartbreak (Mikal Shapiro and Dedric Moore) builds their temple from voltage and vulnerability, where emotion runs through the machines until it gleams like chrome and bruises like memory. This is darkwave by way of desire: music meant for the body first, the confession second.
Shapiro’s voice carries the ache of someone still reaching out through the smoke. It bends around Moore’s machinery with a human ache that keeps the beats from freezing over. The synths move like heavy weather, drones colliding with percussive bursts, basslines that feel hydraulic. There’s structure, but it’s fluid; a series of emotional flashpoints disguised as rhythm.
Lunate locks into an EBM cadence that could make even heartbreak sound like a commandment. By the time the end arrives, the tension has become a kind of release, a pulse you no longer fight but follow.
Religion of Heartbreak understands the paradox of this music: it’s distant yet deeply human, mechanical yet soaked in feeling. Their chemistry lies in the friction—her voice soft where his synths bite, his basslines steady where her melody drifts into dream logic. Together, they summon that familiar trance of bodies moving to forget what hurts.
Lunate finds rhythm in collapse. The production is deliberate, every tone placed like a tile in a mosaic of lust and loss. Beneath the club-ready veneer is something more private: a portrait of connection framed in fluorescent light. Religion of Heartbreak manages to map the emotional circuitry of nightlife: anticipation, abandon, regret, renewal. Their devotion is to the moment when music replaces conversation, when desire becomes the only doctrine left standing. And in that sacred blur between the beat and the heart, Lunate feels like truth: temporary, electric, and all too human.
Listen to Lunate below:
Listen to Lunate below and order the single here.
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