Some songs are escape hatches.
When the world feels like it’s spinning too fast, when the noise gets too loud, when you need to step outside of right now and imagine what could have been, that’s when a song like Time Machine matters.
We’re living in strange times. Leadership that feels reckless. Technology that’s rewriting the rules faster than we can process them. A sense that the ground beneath us keeps shifting, and not in a good way.
I’m not here to preach politics or tell you how to feel about any of it. But I am here to tell you this: music has always been the place where we process what we can’t control. Where we ask the questions that don’t have easy answers. Where we imagine alternate timelines, different choices, roads not taken.
Time Machine is that kind of song.
It’s not about literal time travel. It’s about the universal human impulse to look back and wonder: What if I could change one thing? What if I had a chance to rewrite a moment, a decision, a turning point?
We’ve all been there. Late at night, replaying conversations in our heads. Imagining different outcomes. Not out of regret, necessarily, but out of curiosity. Out of the need to make sense of how we got here.
This song sits in that space. It doesn’t offer answers. It offers company.
Musically, it’s built to pull you in. The kind of track that doesn’t just play in the background, it wraps around you. There’s weight to it. Atmosphere. A sense of longing that doesn’t tip into sentimentality.
The vocal approach is restrained, almost conversational, like you’re overhearing someone’s private thoughts. That was intentional. This isn’t a performance, it’s a confession.
When I first wrote this song, I had a wild notion that Tori Amos might sing on it someday. Not because it’s her usual territory, but because her voice has that rare ability to make vulnerability feel powerful. Who knows, maybe that collaboration happens someday. For now, this version stands on its own.
And it’s been worth the wait.
Here’s the thing about creative work: the good stuff takes iteration. You push. You refine. You strip away what doesn’t serve the song until all that’s left is what needs to be there.
That process isn’t always visible to listeners, and it shouldn’t be. What matters is the end result, the moment when you press play and feel something shift.
The animated cover for this release went through that same process. My collaborator Ken Bailey and I pushed through countless versions to get it right. Not because we’re perfectionists for the sake of it, but because the visual had to match the feeling of the song. When it finally clicked, we knew.
That’s the standard. That’s the work.
And that’s what you’re getting when you listen to Time Machine, not a rough draft, not a compromise, but the version that earned its place in your ears.
This song is for anyone who’s ever looked back and wondered. For anyone who’s felt the pull of what if. For anyone who needs a few minutes outside the chaos of right now.
It’s not an escape from reality. It’s a way to sit with it. To process it. To remind yourself that even in uncertain times, there’s still room for reflection, for imagination, for music that meets you where you are.
So here’s the invitation: give it a listen. Let it sit with you. See where it takes you.
And if you want to stay connected to releases like this, not just the songs, but the stories and the why behind them, join the Jody Army list. No spam. Just the signal.
More to come.