Now I Know
I wrote about 90% of the chorus of Now I Know waiting to get my oil changed in December 2019.
On the heels of the dissolution of my 10-year “all-in” band, The Novelists, my being was apparently still asking the universe for more radical change, and a few months later my primary romantic relationship of seven years also ended. Just as things might have begun to stabilize, COVID hit.
It was the most beautifully uncomfortable, disorienting, and realigning phase of my life. I had moments of pain, the depth of which I could not previously have imagined. Emotionally and somatically, I couldn’t understand how I would survive this. Intellectually, I knew that sooner or later, I would make it to the other side.
But it wasn’t all pain; I also experienced massive relief. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was entirely in control of my own decisions and responsible for the outcomes. My destiny was in my own hands. There was also no one left to blame.
Perhaps you too have found yourself in the aftermath of major life changes, only to realize that you massively underestimated the complexity and difficulty those changes would ultimately present. I suspect this phenomenon is partially a survival mechanism, producing in us the necessary, albeit naïve, confidence to take the plunge into the unknown. In my case, I had no illusions that a break up after a seven-year relationship would be easy. But, I had no idea it would be so hard.
Before living through it myself, I always expressed the appropriate platitudes to people when hearing of their breakups and divorces, but I wasn’t really able to relate to them on a deep level. Some things are only knowable through experience.
At times I’ll hear people say they don’t like “sad” or melancholy music or art, and maybe you’re one of them. Here’s an invitation to consider: perhaps the value in these “sad” works is in the opportunity they present to work through challenging emotions together; to commiserate with our fellow humans and say, “Hey, I’ve been there before and I know what it’s like. And, I made it through and so will you.”
Feeling the lows fully is not only a rite of passage, but a non-negotiable, for anyone aspiring to move beyond them—to reclaim a state of agency, gratitude, and love, and thus a deeper understanding of the human condition.
One consequence of writing and living Now I Know is that I don’t feel like the character in the song anymore and haven’t in many years. The song was my attempt at capturing a snapshot of that moment in time and processing those emotions. If you’ve been there, you get it.
Some people meet life-long partners at an early age and never experience the dissolution of a romantic partnership. Rare as it is, when I do meet such people, I stand back in reverence and with a twinge of envy, for just how special such a gift must be. But even for the high school sweethearts who share many decades of the most beautiful marriages, at some point there will still be an end. No matter how tightly we cling to those we love, our health, capacities, or existence itself—at some point, impermanence reigns.
At this point, you may be wondering when the other 10% of the chorus came, as well as the rest of the song. For me, with almost every song, the chorus comes first. Once the thesis statement is in place, the rest of the song virtually writes itself, and this was no exception.
The verses and bridge came in the spring of 2020 after I’d had some time to let the foundation gestate, but it wasn’t for another year or so until the final line of the chorus (the remaining 10%) arrived: “‘til I rolled over to kiss you…” I knew I had captured the essence of the song with “I didn’t know how much I’d miss you…” but the second half of that line proved elusive for quite some time, despite no shortage of frustrating efforts and tactics to force it into existence.
When it did come, I had the sense that it had been there all along, simply waiting to be called into being—more like a recollection than anything born of my own agency. Indeed, the moment you know it’s real is during that liminal state of consciousness in the middle of the night—when you’re craving the comfort of your person, you roll over to kiss them, and they're not there.
This song breaks significant new ground for me production- and recording-wise, as the bulk of both were handled by the incredibly creative and talented producer, Tamas Badszar.
Tamas contacted me via Instagram after coming across my music online and asked if I’d be interested in working on a song together. He brought an approach to the track I would have never envisioned or been able to execute on my own. At the end of the day, what we co-created feels like the perfect soundscape to deliver the message.
The obvious question remains: If I finished writing the song in 2021, why did it take four and a half more years to record and release it? I don’t have a satisfying answer to this and can only say that, for myriad reasons, the timing just didn’t feel right until recently.
If you made it this far, thanks for reading, listening to the track, and indulging my reflections.
In gratitude,
Eric
Written by Eric Henry Andersen
Produced, mixed and mastered by Bodzsár Tamás
Artwork by Ali Denney
Background vocals by Khalilah Smith Cage