Tag: Late Night Grooves

WHOT Episode 153 – “Violent Shiver” by Benjamin Booker

Hosted by Mangus Khan

[Feedback howls. Guitar crashes in like a car chase through gravel. Benjamin’s voice—raw, cracking, absolutely alive.]

“WHOT.
Late Night Grooves.

I’m Mangus Khan.

Episode 153.

And tonight, we don’t linger.

We lunge.

Because sometimes the only way to deal with the weight is to move fast enough it can’t catch you.

Benjamin Booker.
‘Violent Shiver.’

From his self-titled debut, 2014.

This track ain’t polished.

It ain’t pretty.

But that’s why it hits so hard.

The guitars grind like cheap wheels on a bad road.

The beat’s barely holding it together.

And Benjamin?

He’s not singing.

He’s shouting into the void, hoping it answers back.

“Have you seen my baby girl? / She’s got something that I need.”

Could be a woman.
Could be peace.
Could be his damn self.

And that’s the power of this song—

It’s a confession wrapped in speed.

There’s no time to analyze, no space for neat emotions.

Just adrenaline, grief, chaos, and something like hope if you squint hard enough.

This track isn’t about resolution.

It’s about survival through motion.

About how sometimes the only groove that makes sense is one that rattles your bones.

There’s soul here.

But it’s bleeding through punk skin.

And that?

That’s Late Night Grooves in its rawest form.

Not just sound.

Spill.

Episode 153.

Benjamin Booker.
Violent Shiver.

This is WHOT.

I’m Mangus Khan—

Still running.
Still lit.
Still here.”

WHOT Episode 151 – “Baptized in Muddy Water” by Ayron Jones
Hosted by Mangus Khan

[It begins not with fire, but with tension. Guitar feedback hums like a warning. Then the chords drop—heavy, unapologetic.]

“You’ve found your way to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan.

Episode 151.

And if you’re hearing my voice tonight, maybe you’ve been somewhere dark.

Maybe you’re still there.

Tonight’s track?
Not for the unscarred.

Ayron Jones – ‘Baptized in Muddy Water.’

From Child of the State.

A title that isn’t poetic.

It’s personal.

A reminder that for some, identity isn’t chosen—it’s assigned by survival.

And the mud?
It’s not just metaphor.

It’s memory.
Trauma.
Systemic weight.

This song asks a question nobody likes to sit with:

What if your rebirth never came clean?

“I was baptized in muddy water / by the broken hands of time…”

Ayron isn’t glorifying pain.

He’s telling you: this is the water I was given.

Not holy.
Not pure.
Just real.

The guitars groan under the weight of his past.

The drums don’t carry a beat—they carry a burden.

And his voice…

It doesn’t cry for help.

It demands space.

For every foster kid who aged out.

For every addict who made it one more day.

For every person still learning how to wear their scars without shame.

This track doesn’t offer closure.

It offers recognition.

That your origin story might be muddy.

Might be cracked.

But it still made you.

And Ayron Jones?

He isn’t asking for a do-over.

He’s building something out of the debris.

Blues-rock fused with gospel bones.

Not nostalgia.

Not trend.

Just truth.

And that’s what this booth is for.

Not just sound.

Witnessing.

Episode 151.

Ayron Jones.
Baptized in Muddy Water.

A hymn for the haunted.

A groove for the ghosts you’ve learned to live with.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—

Still spinning from the muddy side of grace.

Still here.”

WHOT Episode 148 – “Steppin In Her I. Miller Shoes” by Betty Davis
Hosted by Mangus Khan

[Low hum. Guitar fuzz creeps in like static from another dimension. The rhythm stirs—unsettling, insistent.]

“You’re listening to Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—broadcasting truth from a dimly lit booth, where the forgotten get remembered right.

Episode 148.

And this one?

This one’s for the woman who refused to fold.

The artist who didn’t ask permission.

Betty Davis.

The song?
Steppin In Her I. Miller Shoes.
From They Say I’m Different, 1974.

A song about a woman the world used up, spit out, and moved on from without so much as a whisper.

And Betty?
She sings like a ghost in stilettos.

“She used to dance in nightclubs…
She used to sing in shows…”

You can hear it—this isn’t nostalgia.

It’s mourning.

It’s recognition.

And it’s personal.

Because Betty didn’t just write about this woman.

She was this woman.

A force.
A flame.
A Black woman in the 1970s telling the truth about sex, power, and control—loudly.

And for that?
She was erased.

Dropped by labels. Blackballed by men who couldn’t handle being outshone.

She never got the redemption arc.

She got silence.

But this track?

This is her pushing back—not with apologies, but with fire.

And here’s the part that breaks you if you’re listening closely:

She sings about someone disappearing…
While it was happening to her.

That’s not performance.

That’s premonition.

The music? Gritty. Gnarled.

It doesn’t rise or fall. It grinds.

Like time chewing someone up.

And her voice?
It’s not trained. It’s untrained on purpose.

Because the truth doesn’t need polish.

It needs courage.

Betty Davis gave more than most could handle.

And she paid for it.

But not here.

Not on this station.

On Late Night Grooves, we remember.

We honor.

And we let her voice be what it always was—

Loud. Uncompromising. Necessary.

Episode 148.

Betty Davis.
Steppin In Her I. Miller Shoes.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—

Still walking with the women they tried to forget.

Still spinning stories that deserve to echo.”

WHOT Episode 147 – “I Still Love You” by Ann Peebles
Hosted by Mangus Khan

[Low crackle. The beat eases in—slow, steady, unbothered. Ann’s voice follows: calm, clear, resolute.]

“WHOT.

The hottest in the cool.

You’re back inside Late Night Grooves.

And I’m Mangus Khan.

Tonight—Episode 147—we sit with a song that’s soft on delivery and brutal in truth.

Ann Peebles.
‘I Still Love You.’
From Straight from the Heart, 1972.

Now let me tell you something:

This song is dangerous.

Not because it screams.

But because it doesn’t.

It says the quiet part out loud—
And still keeps its composure.

“I still love you…
I just don’t know why.”

That’s it.

That’s the whole ache.

Have you ever loved someone past the point where it made sense?

Past the apologies, past the clarity, past the part where you swore you were done?

And yet… there it is.

Still lodged in your chest like a name you’re too proud to whisper but too broken to forget.

Ann sings that moment.

But she doesn’t collapse under it.

She holds it.

Like a glass of water with just enough shake to tell you it’s heavy—but she’s not dropping it.

That’s strength.

That’s what most heartbreak songs get wrong.

They act like falling apart is the only honest outcome.

But sometimes?

The bravest thing you can do is keep standing.

Still in love.
Still confused.
Still moving forward anyway.

The groove on this track—
It doesn’t chase the drama.

It lets the weight of the words settle in.

The drums, the guitar—they give her room.

Room to tell the truth with elegance.

Ann Peebles has that rare gift:

She can sound like she’s telling you a secret while looking you dead in the eye.

That’s not performance.

That’s presence.

So if you’re listening tonight and you’re carrying some old name you never gave back—
Some love you still haven’t found the exit for—

This one’s for you.

It doesn’t judge.
It doesn’t fix.

It understands.

Episode 147.

I Still Love You.

Ann Peebles.

This is Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan—

Still honoring the slow truths.

Still playing what most folks are afraid to feel.”

TUNAGE – LNG

WHOT Episode 142 – “Make a Smile for Me” by Bill Withers
Hosted by Mangus Khan

[Vinyl hiss. A single piano note drops like a tear in water. Silence. Then:]

“Good evening, if it even is one.

This is Late Night Grooves, and I’m Mangus Khan.

You’re listening to WHOT—where the frequencies know your secrets.

And tonight… we’re not here for noise.

We’re here for something soft. Something sacred.

Bill Withers. “Make a Smile for Me.”

Now listen—most people only know Bill through the songs that became slogans.
“Lean on Me.” “Lovely Day.” Clean. Uplifting.

But this one?
This isn’t about leaning.
This is about barely standing.

This song lives in that space where the strong start to crack—but won’t ask for help out loud.

“If I lose my way, and my mind is gone… / Make a smile for me.”

Have you ever felt that?
That moment when you don’t need saving. You don’t even need fixing.

You just need someone to see you.

To send a little light back your way.

That’s what this song is.

It’s a candle flickering in a window, you’re not sure anyone’s still watching.

And the way Bill sings it—
He’s not polished. He’s not dramatic.

He’s real.

And maybe that’s the thing about Bill Withers that hits hardest:
He never acted like the world owed him anything.

He wrote music for people who get up early, who bury their sadness in routine, who survive because they have to, not because they’re fearless.

’Justments, the album this track comes from—it’s not about hits. It’s about process.

About what happens when the lights go out and the silence gets loud.

And “Make a Smile for Me”?

That’s not a love song.

It’s a lifeline.

And not every listener will get that.

But you?

You’re here, on Episode 142.

You’ve made it this far through the haze, the heartbreak, the static.

You do get it.

So tonight, while this plays…

Let it remind you:
Even at your most undone, there’s beauty in simply asking.

And grace in being heard.

Bill Withers.
“Make a Smile for Me.”

Late Night Grooves.
WHOT.

And I’m Mangus Khan.

Still here.
Still listening.

For you—and for the silence you don’t have words for.”