Richard Chartier: “places, plastics and particulars”
Richard Chartier’s renown as a specialist of systems enhancing the psychological features of sound-derived cognition is grounded on the same faculties that cause his records – including A Ravishment Of Mirror – to work magnificently as “home installations”. A reiterative continuum informed by the strategic placement and sequencing of cryptic aural hues establishing blurred borders between entrancement and harsh reality, memories emerging from a past that we were deeming as more or less blanked out.
The Pinkcourtesyphone project is depicted as a “syrupy dream” by its very originator, yet the final products aren’t that viscous in this reviewer’s ears. Music born from methods whose prerequisite is the ebbing and flowing of gradual, if needfully fragmentary melodies, the consequent growth of particular frequencies capable of stopping profound souls in their tracks. Something commanding attention for a flash, a voice whispering “hey – remember what you lived” to the remote consciousness. An admonishment for what is still difficult to fathom, the preparation to hurtful experiences through the excretion of knotty thoughts from the mind.
A remembrance – as non-conceptualized as it may be – is frequently bearing thorny gifts. A persistent pulse recalls the heart’s sufferance for someone unable to decode your actual essence in spite of the quiet efforts for an explanation. An awesome droning lament (the opening of “62,000 Valentines”, for example) instantly conveys a sense of impossibility to verbally draw an aching emotion pushing from the inside. Everything seems to revolve around this kind of implied regret, no help granted in finding answers that will nevertheless arrive one day. It’s all damn beautiful in this temporal dilation, vocal ghosts and lengthy reverberations muzzling percussive patterns, endless distortion and dizzying see-saw lullabies.
What the memory retrieved, together with a number of private youth souvenirs: Eno’s Music For Airports and Jeff Greinke’s Timbral Planes. Alio Die’s wonderful “Breathing Again” from The Flight Of Real Image. The grogginess rendered by the granular static picture of the TV screen as white noise signaled the end of transmissions late at night in the early 70s. We were asking many “whys” to ourselves while going to bed. Already aware that, during the following morning at school, nobody would have put across deeper concepts than those materialized by our old Minerva record player on any given solitary Sunday afternoon.