There’s an unforced gentleness about Joseph Marchand, a way of speaking about music as if it were delicate ground, where every gesture must remain humble in order for something real to take shape. When he talks about Treize miniatures, his new instrumental album, released on Nov. 21, 2025, he chooses his words with the same care he brings to his musical notes.
“I really do think this reflects what I’ve been wanting to do,” says Marchand. “A big chunk of what I do is writing instrumental music for film and television, but I’ve been wanting to do something centred around the nylon-string guitar for a very long time.”
That long-held desire took shape in a project where intimacy sets the tone. Far from the sweeping orchestral scores he’s composed for the screen and for theatre over the past 20 years, he returns to a minimalist language shaped by the very material of the instrument… before layering in a touch of orchestral colour. “But, it all started with an alternate tuning,” he says. “I’ve been playing guitar for so long that I have to set traps for myself so my fingers don’t always fall into the same patterns.”
This idea of traps and deliberate accidents is at the heart of Treize miniatures. It stems as much from Marchand’s method as from one of his major inspirations, Adrianne Lenker. “Her music and the way she makes it make me feel like she was a long-lost sister while I was working on this,” he says. “There’s an element of chance. You place your fingers somewhere, barely thinking, and something unfolds on its own. The low and high notes come together beautifully. It’s pure joy.”
The Miniature as a Territory
The album title came naturally. “A miniature is a musical form that’s not strictly defined,” he says. “They’re short, intimate pieces.” In these 13 fragments, Marchand explores a unified breath, rather than a storyline. “I could try to find a narrative meaning, but that’s not how I experience it. It’s not programmatic music. I didn’t want to evoke the river, or tell a specific story.” What captivates him is the space where listeners write their own narrative. “Instrumental music is a beautiful vehicle for that – for taking a journey, for stepping outside the world we’re in.”
Scattered throughout the album are contributions from a remarkable constellation of collaborators, including François Lafontaine, Nicolas Basque, Simone Marchand, Marie-Pier Arthur, Klô Pelgag, Safia Nolin, Raphaël Pépin-Tanguay, Stéphane Lafleur, and a string quartet led by Mélanie Bélair and Chantal Bergeron. The guitarist wanted their presence to be an extension of his own breath, never an overpowering force.
“Initially, what I wanted to do was to create an answer to all the piano albums coming out,” says Marchand. “They’re beautiful records, with a vocabulary we all understand, and I just wanted to do the same thing with guitar… But I couldn’t help myself and threw in some orchestration,” he laughs.
When he talks about composing, he often uses sculpting as a metaphor, and that image starts to make sense when you listen to the musician describe his process: “I’d build a skeleton… Actually, I’d rather use the metaphor of a tree. So there’s a trunk. Then I’d add little branches, then big ones, and leaves too. I’d record a main track, then tiny notes, barely anything. It feels like you’re hearing a single guitar – but it’s actually surrounded and enriched by many others.”
Select the image to access the video of the Joseph Marchand piece “St-Placide, l’été”
He sees this meticulous layering as a way to preserve the vulnerability of his gesture, while giving it a sense of scale. “I’m constantly composing,” he says. “I always have an instrument near me; it’s second nature for me. I had something to say, and this is how it came out.”
For a long time, Marchand has inhabited two creative worlds: commissioned compositions, where every decision is guided by the scene it must serve, and entirely personal projects, where he’s accountable only to himself. “Of course, the desire has to be there,” he says. “But as soon as I settle into one thing and feel like I’ve figured it out, I start to stagnate. I stop learning. Treize miniatures was a totally open-ended project, and it feeds everything else. It keeps me sharp.”
Working without a safety net, Marchand had to break a familiar habit: seeking feedback. Pierre Girard, who recorded and mixed the album, was a calm and reassuring presence, but in the end, the process was deeply solitary. “The real challenge was being completely on my own, he says. “Just me, a coffee, and a microphone. No one to say when to begin, when to wrap up, or when to switch gears.” He laughs. “Next time, I might invite someone just to say, ‘That’s good – let’s call it.’”
Listeners familiar with his work will recognize a through line in this new album – something that’s been quietly weaving through his music for years. “There’s a way of playing here that’s close to what I was doing with Forêt back in 2013,” he says. “I’m still drawn to harmony, to shifting chords that spark something unexpected.”
There are also echoes of his work with Safia Nolin: “When I play on a Safia record, you’ll hear a mix of strange, funny, and sad experiences, contrasting emotions and moments. I’ve learned so much from her.”
As for Klô Pelgag, she lends her voice to Treize miniatures, revisiting a piece she and Samuel Gougoux had explored in a different way before. “Klô recorded her vocals,” says Marchand. “I’m blown away by her talent, every single time. There’s just this endless well of creativity in her.”
For the tracks where he sings himself, Marchand turned to Stéphane Lafleur for his gift with words. “He’s so good with language,” he says. “It was a bit of a challenge for him, because he prefers classic structures – a verse is a verse, a chorus is a chorus. But he came to the studio, sat down with a notepad, listened, and offered advice. I know it didn’t come entirely naturally to him.”
Marchand is already imagining how Treize miniatures might come to life onstage: “I want to explore how far I can go with just the guitar. Maybe one other person with me. Telling stories. Creating a moment.”
He’s still figuring out how to present music without explicit storytelling. “As an audience member, you might feel like you need a user manual, he says. “But I want the music to carry you. To let go of reality a bit. What I love about music is its ability to create a space where the density of time no longer feels the same.”
That ability is obvious on Treize miniatures, which is composed of 13 windows where the guitar breathes differently. Joseph Marchand isn’t trying to impose a story – he’s offering us a space. It’s up to us to step into it.