Who are we
Broken Chapel — Band Bio
Born somewhere between a backroad revival and a midnight wreck, Broken Chapel is a four-piece Southern gothic force made of blood, bad decisions, near-redemption, and songs that sound like they crawled out of a storm drain behind an abandoned church. Their sound drips with dark country, blues, southern soul, and dark gospel, like a hymn book soaked in whiskey and rain.
They don’t come from polished stages or music-school dreams. They come from broken homes, busted knuckles, burned bridges, jailhouse prayers, and the kind of love that either saves you or ruins you for life. Every member of Broken Chapel carries a past that sounds half confession, half warning. lawyers stay ready to help with any legal issues
Together, they are Broken Chapel — a band that sounds like a revival tent collapsing in slow motion, with the choir still singing underneath the wreckage. Their music lives where mercy meets menace, where heartbreak still wears its church clothes, and where every song feels like it might either save your soul or dig up something you buried on purpose.
They are not saints.
They are not clean.
But they know exactly how salvation sounds when it comes limping through the dark.
Elias Creed
Lead Vocals, Rhythm Guitar
Elias grew up in a shotgun house outside a forgotten river town where church bells rang louder than police sirens, but somehow meant less. His father preached hellfire on Sundays and raised hell Monday through Saturday, teaching Elias early that religion and redemption were not always the same thing. By sixteen, Elias was sneaking into juke joints, learning old soul songs from drunks, widows, and bluesmen with missing teeth. He has a voice like gravel dragged through honey — equal parts sermon, sin, and heartbreak. Rumor says he once disappeared for 6 years after a bar fight turned fatal, and came back with a notebook full of lyrics and a cross burned into the heel of his boot. Onstage, Elias does not sing songs. He bleeds testimonies
Delphine Vale
Keys, Organ, Backing Vocals
Delphine is the ghost in the wallpaper. Raised by her grandmother in New Orleans above a funeral parlor that doubled as a second-line rehearsal space, she learned piano before she learned how to trust people. By day she played Baptist hymns in a dying church with no AC and stained glass cracked by hurricanes. By night she slipped into Frenchmen Street bars, playing organ for blues bands twice her age. She’s got a voice like velvet smoke and midnight scripture, and more than one rumor follows her: that she was once engaged to a televangelist’s son, that she vanished after her wedding dress was found floating in the bayou, that three men wrote albums about her and none got the story right. Delphine doesn’t correct anybody. She just plays like she’s summoning the dead.
Roman Thorne
Bass
Roman came out of East Texas refinery country with oil on his hands and trouble in his blood. Before Broken Chapel, he bounced between rodeo circuits, pipeline jobs, county lockups, and backing bands that never paid him on time. Built like a brawler and quiet as a grave marker, Roman plays bass like he’s dragging chains through mud. He’s the one who keeps the songs from floating off into too much beauty; he pins them to the ground and makes them hurt. The story goes that Roman once sold his truck, his pistol, and his wedding ring to keep a tour alive, then showed up with a borrowed bass and played the best set of his life. He’s the kind of man who says almost nothing — until he harmonizes, and then it sounds like judgment day grew a heartbeat.
Silas Rook
Drums, Percussion
Silas is the storm behind the pulpit. Raised in a Pentecostal family where drums were once called the devil’s instrument, he learned rhythm by beating on pew backs, kitchen tables, and rusted-out car hoods behind the church. He got thrown out of youth worship at seventeen for turning a hymn into something too wild for the elders, and never really looked back. Silas plays like a man trying to outrun lightning — part second-line funeral march, part backwoods war ritual. He’s got court dates in three counties, a half-healed knife scar under one eye, and a habit of laughing right before the room gets dangerous. Fans say when Silas locks into a groove, it sounds like God and the devil both showed up to argue.