Shrouded by secrecy, little is known of Tara Goldenhour. Her art is for herself and lives far afield, deep in the cedar woods. The faint cry of a flute. The tender strum of a banjo. The steady pulse of a thrift shop synthesizer. The ringing bell of a human voice.

Tara’s music evokes time passed by and the relationship of humanity with the divine nature of it all. She sings of love and darkness.