Image courtesy of Charlie Hilton
Charlie Hilton’s sophomore solo effort, ‘River of Valentines,’ is a compact, introspective sonic artifact that elevates the atmospheric pastiche of her previous work with Blouse into a realm of haunting, minimalist sophistication. The album is not merely a collection of songs but a deliberate exploration of affective distance and veiled emotionality.
Spanning a concise 28 minutes, ‘River of Valentines’ functions as a studied exercise in brevity and textural economy. Hilton’s sound palette is characterized by an unfolding smoothness, a current of soft-focus instrumentation that mirrors the flowing continuity implied by the album’s title. The lo-fi ennui is not a stylistic flaw, but a carefully modulated expression of deep sentiment, where emotion is communicated via subtle sonic gestures rather than overt, confessional declarations. The work thus operates in a liminal space—an auditory golden hour—where the vulnerability is present, but always filtered through a lens of aesthetic detachment.
The transition from the early 2010s chillwave of Blouse to Hilton’s solo output marks a deliberate shift toward a lullaby-esque gentleness. This is a movement away from the syrupy saturation of her genre predecessors toward a cleansing, aqueous clarity. Tracks like the sparsely glowing “Fiery Sunset of Kings” and the more rhythmically activated “Machinery,” which offers an uptempo enumeration of veiled desires, exemplify this sincerity devoid of excessive earnestness.
The mid-album track, “Illusion of a Door,” serves as a moment of reflexive stasis, its hazy strumming and airy vocals creating an auditory counterpart to sun glitter—a shimmering surface that obscures depth. This reflective pause, however, is skillfully interrupted by “A Real Love Song.” The track introduces a baroque counterpoint through the metallic plink of a harpsichord, injecting an unexpected chamber-pop sensibility that momentarily fractures the album’s prevailing beach-y wash and questions its established trajectory.
Hilton’s vocal performance throughout the LP demonstrates an eclectic, yet cohesive, intertextuality. Her voice functions as a spectral echo, evoking the haunting disinterest of Nico and the melodic lilt of Broadcast’s Trish Keenan. Produced by Chris Cohen (a figure known for his work with figures like Weyes Blood and Cass McCombs), the album is a synthesis of influences spanning ’60s psych-pop and the gauzy sheen of 2010s dream-pop. ‘River of Valentines’ is positioned within a lineage that includes the ethereal minimalist pop of Antena’s ‘Camino Del Sol’, Mazzy Star, Julee Cruise, and Nancy Sinatra, reinforcing its identity as a diaristic, Super 8-style document.
The album’s climax and conceptual apotheosis arrives with “If I Could Only Get Higher.” Here, a heart-wrenching chord progression swells beneath a whispered longing, transforming the ethereal soundscape into a moment of febrile emotional intensity. Ultimately, ‘River of Valentines’ is a sophisticated elegy to longing itself, a testament to the power of subtlety as a mode of emotional conveyance.
Many thanks to Charlie for entertaining my questions.
James Broscheid: Your music, especially on this album, seems to operate in a space of subtle gestures rather than full confessions. I read a review that mentioned the album “reveals its emotional stakes in subtle gestures rather than full confessions.” One review of the record references the film ‘Picnic at Hanging Rock’ (South Australian Film Corporation, 1975), where the most impactful moments are often what’s not said or seen. Is there a freedom in this subtlety? In not having to fully confess or define an emotion, does it allow the feeling itself to have a longer, more resonant life?
Charlie Hilton: I hope so. I’ve always enjoyed that kind of freedom in a song, to circle around a thing and suggest it instead of saying it all at once. It seems to me that’s the point of any kind of art. In the end, all that circling makes a negative shape and you (James) can go ahead and fill it in as you’d like. The freedom isn’t only mine. A poet I like says that “it is two minds that make meaning, which is an action, not a fact.” It’s an action that, in my mind, doesn’t end.
JB: In that same vein, can you elaborate on how that film, or its themes of mystery and disappearance, influenced the album’s sound and lyrical content?
CH: I have never seen the film, but I’ve been reading a ton about mysticism lately, which emphasizes the value of what is unsaid and unseen. Writing songs is sort of like mining silence for a few scrappy words and melodies that almost lead somewhere. I don’t think getting there is the point.
JB: What inspired you to introduce that baroque element of the harpsichord on “A Real Love Song”? Was it a conscious decision to break the album’s otherwise serene, beachy wash, or did it feel like a natural part of the record’s flow?
CH: I love the harpsichord, and Jay Israelson (who played all the keys) had one in his living room. It was obvious that we needed it on that song. Or maybe I’m wrong! Maybe I asked Chris (Cohen) about adding a harpsichord to that track before I ever met Jay or knew he had one. That’s the fun of releasing a record you made years ago. It’s a mysterious artifact, even to me.
JB: As you mentioned, the album was recorded in 2018 and released years later. What was the experience like of revisiting and releasing music that was created so long ago? Did your relationship with the songs change over time?
CH: Absolutely. For so long, I wondered if the songs were finished. But over time, I came to realize that they only needed me to change or let up on them a little. When I made the record, I was a new mother, and I was in a desperate state. I expected too much from the songs. Or maybe I just didn’t want the experience to end. You could think of a record as an experiment with a result. I went to LA, met some friends in a room, and we did what we could with the time we had. With some distance, I grew to love that experiment in a way that allowed me to embrace it for what it was. I love those songs more today than I ever have.
JB: The idea of the self being a spectral presence in the music is fascinating. Do you find that letting the self dissolve—is the most authentic way to connect with listeners?
CH: Yes. We all want the same thing from music, whatever side we’re on. Some kind of paradoxical escape from the self and a simultaneous dive right into the center.
JB: You have been quoted as saying, “The wish has always been to reach out, towards someone,” rather than keeping a diary. How do you balance this desire to connect with others while maintaining the sense of personal vulnerability and introspection found in your music?
CH: I see those actions as one and the same, not mutually exclusive. When I’m writing, I’m looking for something, trying to work something out. That process is relieving to me, and it’s for no one else. But I’ve never wanted it to end there. When it comes to releasing music, the hope is to be in a conversation, or to offer a moment of relief to anyone. When I was a teenager at a high school party, you’d find me in a quiet room with my guitar, singing to a bunch of stoned people. I’m embarrassed to think of it now, but it was all I wanted to do. And still, when someone tells me my songs helped them through a difficult time in their life, that is my childhood dream fulfilled.
JB: The sound on this album is described as a departure from your work with Blouse, moving towards a gentler, more “lullaby-esque” style. What prompted this shift in your solo music?
CH: I think that had a lot to do with the process. We played live in a tiny garage studio. No click track. Minimal overdubs.
JB: With a wide range of influences for this record, from Nico and Broadcast’s (much, much missed!) Trish Keenan to Mazzy Star and Nancy Sinatra, what specific elements from these artists do you feel most directly informed the creation of ‘River of Valentines’?
CH: I have no idea! I love all of those artists. I like the way they sing things.
JB: What was the collaborative process like with producer Chris Cohen (who has released some great work of his own)? How did his creative input shape the final sound of the album?
CH: Chris is so talented. We talked a little bit about the songs before recording, but mostly, we just showed up at the studio and played the songs with the band for a couple days to figure them out. Chris played bass, engineered, and produced. He was busy! As a producer, he was delicate with the songs. I sensed he didn’t want to paint too many of his own ideas over them but protected them in a way. He mixed the record too. I don’t know how to describe how he shaped the record, other than the fact that he indeed did put it into a shape.
JB: The opening track, “Exorcise,” includes the line, “If I am gonna have to play,” suggesting a reluctant dive into emotional expression. Can you discuss the meaning behind this lyric?
CH: The full line is “I am trying to sit out, but they said I’m not allowed / said I’m gonna have to play.” When I say “play” I’m not talking music. When I say “they,” I’m probably referring to the gods. Overall, it’s about fear and the reluctance to be vulnerable.
JB: “If I Could Only Get Higher” has been labelled the album’s standout track, with its powerful chord progression and longing vocals. What makes this song such a crucial part of the album’s emotional arc, and what inspired its lyrical theme of wanting to “put back apart / All the missing highways”? The album’s brief 28-minute runtime is noted as feeling like “one long exhale.”
CH: This song was inspired by a feeling of complete despair and powerlessness, and it’s one of the two political songs on the record. It’s subtle though. I wouldn’t expect for anyone to know it. As for the length of the record, that was just how it landed. I’d like to think that in the end, you’re left feeling some kind of desire, which can be a useful thing.
JB: Your work as a solo artist and as a member of Blouse has been associated with Captured Tracks for quite some time. It was a bit of a surprise to see ‘River Of Valentines’ being released on Rhododendron Records?
CH: There is no Rhododendron Records! That’s just a little joke between me and Bráulio Amado, the designer who made the album art. I self-released this album because I don’t have any business being on a label right now. I’m not touring or playing a single show. This release is sort of a non-event, but it needed to happen.
JB: I still remember fondly your gig in Salt Lake City and getting to chat with you. So no tour dates on the heels of this record’s release?
CH: I loved playing in Salt Lake City! No tours coming up, but thanks for your interest in this record. It means a lot. Hopefully, we’ll talk about another one someday!
For more information or to purchase, please visit the Chuck Hilton website and follow along on Instagram.
