Groundsworn by Benchset

"Groundsworn" isn't just another record, it's a full-on field report from the Crosspoint, raw and stripped back. We wanted to dig deeper than the blueprints and the mud, into the ground itself—where memory and time get carved up just like the land. We pulled every bit of static from old walkies, every boot scuff, every damn argument from a hundred different jobs, and put it all in.

This album, it follows a crew stuck in the grind, wrestling with backlogs and bad blood. They’re caught between what was and what’s coming, reliving moments that sting and moments that make you feel like you finally nailed something right. It’s about those half-erased claim markers, the boot-prints that fade with the dawn, and the maps scribbled with a desperate hope that the boundaries we fight for might actually outlast us. We really pushed the sound here; you’ll hear riffs jagged like stake wire, drums that hit like riprap, and bass that grounds every single note in that cold, damp clay we know so well. But then it breaks, shifts into these wild, almost euphoric sections. That contrast? That’s the work itself—the daily grind giving way to something bigger, something earned.

The Ledgerclads’ Level Book became more than just a prop for us; it’s the album’s pulse. Each tear, each faded scratch in its pages, it's a layer of collective memory, tying together every Lineholder, every Shiftunt, every new face who ever picked up a plumb bob. You hear it flicker, that book, and it pulls you into these stories that stretch back generations. We even found ourselves hitting this one part in the studio, a massive surge of sound we knew had to be the heart of it all—a rallying cry, pure communal hope, where the guitars just climb towards the sky and you can almost feel the crowd shouting, "Set the mark, trace the daylight!" That’s what we chased: that feeling of refusing to be erased.

From the dirt-stomped breakdowns to those shimmering, almost utopian melodies, "Groundsworn" cuts a path. It’s our way of saying that even fleeting stories can etch meaning into this impermanent ground. Every claimed inch, every sore muscle, every damn mistake—it’s a measure against time’s wash. This record isn't theory. It’s the build, the daily fight. It’s about the bliss you find after the toil, the remembrance you forge by just showing up and fighting to leave something that endures. It’s ours, and it’s yours.

Raw angles and bleeding feedback—we throw measuring chains against the system. Our riffs mark boundaries between rage and repair while vocals stake claims in the dirt of what's true. Every show's a rusted benchmark, a raised fist for the ground-level grinders.