Chalumeau – “Blue” Review: Grief, Memory, and a New Flame That Doesn’t Go Out

“Blue was my mother’s favorite color / I never thought it would be mine.” In a world of love songs and ego trips, it’s a lyric that lands like a stone in still water—quiet, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. On their latest single, “Blue,” Chalumeau channels grief into something delicate, crafting a piano ballad that immediately claims your attention.

The track arrives as part of the Rhode Island duo’s debut album, Blue, dropping August 7. Chalumeau is the genre-blending project of Brown University professors Katherine Bergeron and Butch Rovan, but don’t expect academia in the pejorative sense—“Blue” is anything but theoretical. It’s personal and sounds like the inside of a moment you haven’t quite named yet.

“I finished the song during a period of compounded personal loss,” Bergeron shares. “Like every song in the collection, this one is about real life, but as our final single, it may just be the most personal of all.”

Built on arpeggiated piano and Bergeron’s low, unguarded vocal, “Blue” takes its time. There is cello—courtesy of Ulrich Maiss—slipping in like a second voice, echoing thoughts unspoken. It’s restrained, and because of that, devastating. You feel the absence.

The accompanying video leans into that same stillness. A woman sits in reflection, caught in the tide of memory. Color soaks the screen like emotion bleeding through fabric. Her late mother appears briefly in a photograph. You feel her presence more than you see it.

Chalumeau’s earlier singles dipped into bossa nova, big-band blues, and hard rock, but “Blue” strips everything down to the essence. It’s a turning point in the album’s emotional arc—a moment of surrender. As Bergeron puts it, the title track was there before the rest, “a whole narrative in two lines.” It’s the start and the center of this record.

If “Blue” is any indication, Chalumeau’s debut won’t be easy listening—but it might be necessary.