American singer-songwriter, poet, and photographer Thomas Meluch, known musically as Benoît Pioulard, returns with his most structured and vocal release to date. Titled Eidetic, a word denoting the ability to recall mental images with extraordinarily rich precision, the album presents unprecedented clarity and vitality for Benoît Pioulard. To access its thematic ground, Meluch looked inward with an affinity towards the people he loves during a period marked by his move from Seattle to Brooklyn in 2019. Eidetic is the culmination of Meluch's craft both as a producer and writer. An evocative sonic vocabulary meets deft lyrical introspection, articulated with the nuance, vulnerability, and confidence of a longtime artist hitting a stride. Meluch has continually refined, redefined, and adjusted the focus of his gentle pop project over the last 20 years. 2021 full-length Bloodless found Meluch deep in droning decay, expressive yet wordless. With Eidetic, he swings back to sharpened forms. Lush banks of treated guitar and synth brush against hushed percussion; there is mist in the distance, but everything up close is intricately constructed and radiant. Meluch's voice is notably forward in the mix -- a warm and calming tenor, a harmonic coo more than a whisper -- ever-observant and actively processing. To record much of the album, Meluch filled a cabin in rural Maine with his usual setup of simple percussion, a couple of Fender electrics, and a parlor guitar made by his friend who does bespoke luthier work. Eidetic opens in a swirl of familiar haze; "Margaret Murie" eases listeners in, as lush and verdant as the landscapes conserved by its famed namesake. With the setting established, Meluch, the narrator, enters the foreground with "Crux," a tender piece written about finding new motivations in a new city. Meluch's prose shines on the swiftly-moving "Nameless," inspired by the neurological effects that came with the antiquated practice of manufacturing mercury mirrors. Across the album, labyrinthine lyrical ponderings scatter with dazzling imagery, artfully blurring scenes from world history with Meluch's more personal, present-day. The propulsive and earnest "Thursday Night" catches his mind overly active and too stoned, riffing on black holes and songwriting itself. "Halve" references the splitting of the atom, what he considers "the beginning of man's downfall," and the unrealized initiative proposed by the US government that would have created "nuclear refuges" in its national parks. Meluch's loved ones weave throughout; "Tet" holds his father's experience in Vietnam and its lasting effects. "Lillian Isola" touches on his maternal grandmother's spinal curvature, and "Pastel Dust" navigates the wake of his cat, who died on New Year's Eve 2020.