Dedicated to his fellow sound artist Steve Roden, Richard Chartier's Touch debut is a quiet contemplation that zeroes in on the microscopic details, bringing rough, inclement textures out slowly from somnolent, psychoactive drones.
When Roden passed away last year, Chartier was already almost finished with 'On Leaving'. The two artists had been friends since 1988, when Chartier had released his first album, and had been close ever since. So when Chartier visited Roden before the pandemic, and observed how he was slipping away from the effects of Alzheimers, he realized could reflect Roden's impact on his life with a series of contemplative compositions. This is patient, cryptically complex material, and some of the most stealthily emotional work Chartier has penned to date. It's an album that's minimal - Chartier asks us to listen on headphones or at the very least at a low volume - but not without movement. Like Roden, Chartier exerts a meditational level of focus on his soundscapes, coaxing us into deep listening with subtle rhythms and tonal shifts that occur almost imperceptibly.
This isn't music that can be skipped through or placed in the background, it requires attention - the kind of concentration that can bring out its oblique movements and furtive textures. The first 10-minute piece is surprisingly organic; it's not obvious what Chartier's source material might be, but the gustiness suggests the outdoor environment or at the very least, some kind of obsolete technology. He cautiously blurs in synthetic sounds, never overwhelming the atmosphere with drama, but retaining a pregnant nervousness that shifts into the center of the frame on the thrumming 'variance.2'. And by 'variance.4' the noise has subsided completely, leaving raw, undulating sub bass that curves underneath barely perceptible synth quivers. It's a charming but unrelentingly intense analysis of loss and regret that doesn't ever forget the humanity and warmth of its subject.
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Dedicated to his fellow sound artist Steve Roden, Richard Chartier's Touch debut is a quiet contemplation that zeroes in on the microscopic details, bringing rough, inclement textures out slowly from somnolent, psychoactive drones.
When Roden passed away last year, Chartier was already almost finished with 'On Leaving'. The two artists had been friends since 1988, when Chartier had released his first album, and had been close ever since. So when Chartier visited Roden before the pandemic, and observed how he was slipping away from the effects of Alzheimers, he realized could reflect Roden's impact on his life with a series of contemplative compositions. This is patient, cryptically complex material, and some of the most stealthily emotional work Chartier has penned to date. It's an album that's minimal - Chartier asks us to listen on headphones or at the very least at a low volume - but not without movement. Like Roden, Chartier exerts a meditational level of focus on his soundscapes, coaxing us into deep listening with subtle rhythms and tonal shifts that occur almost imperceptibly.
This isn't music that can be skipped through or placed in the background, it requires attention - the kind of concentration that can bring out its oblique movements and furtive textures. The first 10-minute piece is surprisingly organic; it's not obvious what Chartier's source material might be, but the gustiness suggests the outdoor environment or at the very least, some kind of obsolete technology. He cautiously blurs in synthetic sounds, never overwhelming the atmosphere with drama, but retaining a pregnant nervousness that shifts into the center of the frame on the thrumming 'variance.2'. And by 'variance.4' the noise has subsided completely, leaving raw, undulating sub bass that curves underneath barely perceptible synth quivers. It's a charming but unrelentingly intense analysis of loss and regret that doesn't ever forget the humanity and warmth of its subject.
Dedicated to his fellow sound artist Steve Roden, Richard Chartier's Touch debut is a quiet contemplation that zeroes in on the microscopic details, bringing rough, inclement textures out slowly from somnolent, psychoactive drones.
When Roden passed away last year, Chartier was already almost finished with 'On Leaving'. The two artists had been friends since 1988, when Chartier had released his first album, and had been close ever since. So when Chartier visited Roden before the pandemic, and observed how he was slipping away from the effects of Alzheimers, he realized could reflect Roden's impact on his life with a series of contemplative compositions. This is patient, cryptically complex material, and some of the most stealthily emotional work Chartier has penned to date. It's an album that's minimal - Chartier asks us to listen on headphones or at the very least at a low volume - but not without movement. Like Roden, Chartier exerts a meditational level of focus on his soundscapes, coaxing us into deep listening with subtle rhythms and tonal shifts that occur almost imperceptibly.
This isn't music that can be skipped through or placed in the background, it requires attention - the kind of concentration that can bring out its oblique movements and furtive textures. The first 10-minute piece is surprisingly organic; it's not obvious what Chartier's source material might be, but the gustiness suggests the outdoor environment or at the very least, some kind of obsolete technology. He cautiously blurs in synthetic sounds, never overwhelming the atmosphere with drama, but retaining a pregnant nervousness that shifts into the center of the frame on the thrumming 'variance.2'. And by 'variance.4' the noise has subsided completely, leaving raw, undulating sub bass that curves underneath barely perceptible synth quivers. It's a charming but unrelentingly intense analysis of loss and regret that doesn't ever forget the humanity and warmth of its subject.
Dedicated to his fellow sound artist Steve Roden, Richard Chartier's Touch debut is a quiet contemplation that zeroes in on the microscopic details, bringing rough, inclement textures out slowly from somnolent, psychoactive drones.
When Roden passed away last year, Chartier was already almost finished with 'On Leaving'. The two artists had been friends since 1988, when Chartier had released his first album, and had been close ever since. So when Chartier visited Roden before the pandemic, and observed how he was slipping away from the effects of Alzheimers, he realized could reflect Roden's impact on his life with a series of contemplative compositions. This is patient, cryptically complex material, and some of the most stealthily emotional work Chartier has penned to date. It's an album that's minimal - Chartier asks us to listen on headphones or at the very least at a low volume - but not without movement. Like Roden, Chartier exerts a meditational level of focus on his soundscapes, coaxing us into deep listening with subtle rhythms and tonal shifts that occur almost imperceptibly.
This isn't music that can be skipped through or placed in the background, it requires attention - the kind of concentration that can bring out its oblique movements and furtive textures. The first 10-minute piece is surprisingly organic; it's not obvious what Chartier's source material might be, but the gustiness suggests the outdoor environment or at the very least, some kind of obsolete technology. He cautiously blurs in synthetic sounds, never overwhelming the atmosphere with drama, but retaining a pregnant nervousness that shifts into the center of the frame on the thrumming 'variance.2'. And by 'variance.4' the noise has subsided completely, leaving raw, undulating sub bass that curves underneath barely perceptible synth quivers. It's a charming but unrelentingly intense analysis of loss and regret that doesn't ever forget the humanity and warmth of its subject.
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Dedicated to his fellow sound artist Steve Roden, Richard Chartier's Touch debut is a quiet contemplation that zeroes in on the microscopic details, bringing rough, inclement textures out slowly from somnolent, psychoactive drones.
When Roden passed away last year, Chartier was already almost finished with 'On Leaving'. The two artists had been friends since 1988, when Chartier had released his first album, and had been close ever since. So when Chartier visited Roden before the pandemic, and observed how he was slipping away from the effects of Alzheimers, he realized could reflect Roden's impact on his life with a series of contemplative compositions. This is patient, cryptically complex material, and some of the most stealthily emotional work Chartier has penned to date. It's an album that's minimal - Chartier asks us to listen on headphones or at the very least at a low volume - but not without movement. Like Roden, Chartier exerts a meditational level of focus on his soundscapes, coaxing us into deep listening with subtle rhythms and tonal shifts that occur almost imperceptibly.
This isn't music that can be skipped through or placed in the background, it requires attention - the kind of concentration that can bring out its oblique movements and furtive textures. The first 10-minute piece is surprisingly organic; it's not obvious what Chartier's source material might be, but the gustiness suggests the outdoor environment or at the very least, some kind of obsolete technology. He cautiously blurs in synthetic sounds, never overwhelming the atmosphere with drama, but retaining a pregnant nervousness that shifts into the center of the frame on the thrumming 'variance.2'. And by 'variance.4' the noise has subsided completely, leaving raw, undulating sub bass that curves underneath barely perceptible synth quivers. It's a charming but unrelentingly intense analysis of loss and regret that doesn't ever forget the humanity and warmth of its subject.