Eddie Cohn’s new single, “Get Back My Way,” starts with the kind of intimate acoustic strumming that feels like overhearing a conversation someone is having with their own reflection. It’s an immediate plunge into that uniquely modern disquiet—the sense of being adrift in a sea of your own making, armed with a compass whose needle just spins and spins. The narrator’s battle for “sanity” and “faith” isn’t abstract; it’s a palpable, teeth-grinding effort to find the thread again.
The track doesn’t just sit in its melancholy, though. It swells. The full band—with Brett Farkas’s electric guitars carving out space and Jake Reed’s drumming providing a resolute, anxious heartbeat—ushers in a sound steeped in the gutsy, flannel-clad vulnerability of 90s alt-rock. Then you notice Philip Peterson’s cello, not as a layer of orchestral gloss, but as another voice in the argument, sawing at the edges with a sorrowful gravitas. It’s a beautifully constructed crescendo, moving from an internal monologue to a desperate, outward roar.
The line “remember what you’re made of” stopped me cold. For a second, it made me think of kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, highlighting the fractures instead of hiding them. Cohn’s song feels like that—an attempt to piece a self back together not by erasing the pain, but by using the raw, aching plea as the very substance that fills the cracks. It’s a recognition that the fight itself is part of what you’re made of now.
This isn’t the sound of a victory lap. It’s the sound of the grueling marathon itself, of reminding yourself to just put one foot in front of the other. “Get Back My Way” ends not with a neat resolution, but with the echo of the struggle. What does it feel like to finally claw your way back into your own heart, only to find it’s a place you barely recognize anymore?
