It’s easy to be skeptical of academic types who pivot to pop music. Too often, the result feels overthought, underfelt — a sonic dissertation no one asked for. But Chalumeau, the project of Brown University professors Katherine Bergeron and Butch Rovan, sidesteps this trap with startling grace. On “My Hands Are Tied,” they deliver something intimate, unflinching, and quietly devastating.

The song’s strength is in its paradox. The narrator claims emotional detachment, but the music says otherwise. Rovan’s arrangement leads with a kind of polished tension — guitar lines that sound like questions without answers — and Bergeron’s vocals play the role of a narrator who’s not as in control as she wants to be. It’s all the more powerful because it doesn’t try to overwhelm you. Instead, it lingers, like the memory of a conversation that never got finished.

You can hear the weight of history here. The song originated years ago, written by Rovan at a time when the idea of their relationship was still just a theory. Since then, it’s evolved — not just lyrically, but emotionally. There’s a lived-in quality to it now, a fragility that can’t be faked. It’s the sound of people who know what it means to hold back, and what it costs.

The accompanying music video captures that internal conflict with cinematic clarity: a woman on a train, haunted by what she’s left behind, revisiting memories that are both beautiful and corrosive. It’s not nostalgia, but longing with no resolution.

It’s the kind of song that rewards headphones and repeat listens — quiet, intimate, and full of things you don’t catch the first time. If this is what Chalumeau is bringing to their debut album, Blue, then we may be witnessing the emergence of a new kind of indie band — one that’s less about the scene and more about the soul.