"How We've Changed" was primarily written in the spring of 2018, and and recorded in the late winter and spring of 2019. Some of the songs have roots as far back as 2011 (I still have clumsy voice memos on my phone of "Velveteen" and "Highways That Vibrate" from back then).

The post-production was done throughout the summer, fall, winter of 2019, and completed around March of 2020. A time when being excited about anything felt inappropriate. I shelved the album in hopes that there'd come a day where it felt okay to be celebratory.

Now, over 2 years later, I think that time has come. What's striking to me is that my album, which is based on themes of change, has become a deeper more profound personal statement to me since it's completion. I love that even **MY** understanding of it has evolved. How we've changed, indeed.

I was joined in making this album by a host of really wonderful, creative friends. Eric Carlson is a true ace and exceptional collaborator. He really made the whole thing pop. Molly Ulseth is my wife, and provides exceptionally sweet harmonies all throughout. Matt Schiebe recorded all of these drum parts in my spare bedroom in a single afternoon (!!!), Emily Mohrbacher (from the wonderful band, Val Son) added her buttery vocal textures on many of the songs. Green Bouzard lent her classically-trained string performances to a number of songs, and understood the vision from the get-go. Soren Tryggestad brought so many great brass ideas to the table that amounted to some of piece's most exciting and poignant moments. Bryan Isaacs is a lifelong friend who added an aesthetic panache that works perfectly in concert with the music. Bryn Harding, an old pal from college, was generous enough to let me use his painting for the cover art. I could go on about all of these people.

About that painting. Bryn has a series of paintings that feature construction cranes. I love the image of the crane looming in the background over a historic building. There are dark birds in the trees, and power lines stretching out overhead. It's a wonderful visual metaphor for how our world evolves, and how we're constantly picking up the pieces and trying to grow. I love it.

Speaking of which: These are songs of love, confusion, empathy, and evolution. I hope all of that comes across to you, and perhaps you'll even find yourself laughing at parts.

It feels good to finally be able to float these songs off on a raft to the center of a lake. The raft made of twigs and twine, gently creaks and moans as its distance grows from the shore. I pull an arrow from my quiver, light its end with a burning torch, thread the string through its slot, pull it back, aim, and launch the flaming arrow onto the raft as it floats away. I watch as the raft and the songs become engulfed in a white and blue dancing flame, I am bitterly and sweetly reminded of the time where they all only existed in my head.

Now, out of my hands, they take light and combust. This is not a funerary commemoration, but one of joy, hope, and change.

Andy Ulseth, 2022.