There’s a certain Southern dusk that changes everything. The day’s heat fades, the sky bruises purple, and the sounds around you start to carry weight — cicadas, dogs, the creak of a porch swing. That’s the hour when Wednesday’s Bleeds belongs. The record doesn’t just play; it settles into the half-light, reminding you of all the things that won’t quite stay buried.

“I wound up here by holdin’ on.”

Karly Hartzman writes from that soil. Raised in Greensboro, sharpened in Asheville, her songs carry the small-town cadences of gossip, family grief, breakups, and quiet endurance. The South is not set dressing here — it’s the grammar. You hear it in the pedal steel that bends like kudzu over a fence, in the stories of young people stuck and restless, in the undercurrent of church pews and dirt

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