The record opens like weather rolling in.
Guitars gather. The sky darkens.
And suddenly, “Faultlines” begins to move beneath your feet.
Pisgah writes from the cracks — the unseen places where memory, grief, and release intersect. These songs arrive slowly, carrying fragments of inherited pain, abandoned selves, and quiet defiance.
A storm forms in “Cumulonimbus,” beauty and weight coexisting. Elsewhere, collapse unfolds in slow motion, approval chased until nothing remains to break the fall. Voices echo where answers never came.
At the center, there is restraint. When sound pulls back, meaning steps forward. Sparse arrangements allow words to breathe, allowing vulnerability to exist without disguise. A voice emerges — low, steady, unguarded — not performing emotion, but inhabiting it.
Ghosts appear gently: grandmothers remembered, roads stretching away from wreckage, nights where clarity flickers in the dark. Movement becomes survival. Distance becomes vision.
And at the end, a quiet offering. A song released into the cold rain. Not really an ending — a letting go.
Faultlines reveals what remains after the storm has passed. Dive into it: