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9/14 Star Witness

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When I wrote Star Witness, I wasn’t trying to be poetic or clever. I was trying to survive a memory. Some songs come from pure invention, some from playfulness, but this one was different. This one felt like holding a flashlight in a dark room and finally realizing the shadows have names.

The title came first. I kept thinking about the phrase, “star witness.” In court, the star witness is the one who saw it all, the one who carries the truth no one else can deny. I thought: what if I am my own star witness? What if I’m the only one who can testify to what happened to me, to the things no one else was around to see?

Writing it was messy. I’d sit at the piano and the chords sounded like bruises. Low, stubborn, aching. The lyrics poured out like confessions I didn’t even mean to write. I remember one night, around 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling and whispering the chorus over and over until it stopped sounding like words and started sounding like a wound.

And yet, Star Witness isn’t just sad, it’s defiant. It’s me standing up in the middle of it all and saying: yes, this happened. Yes, I survived it. No, you can’t rewrite my story. There’s a strange kind of power in declaring yourself a witness to your own life. You’re both the evidence and the survivor.

When I play it live, I can feel the room shift. People stop talking, stop moving, and for a few minutes, it feels like everyone is testifying with me. Like we all carry these invisible scars, and in that moment, the silence between us says, I see yours too.

That’s what Star Witness is for me. And because I know so many of you have been asking; yes, the studio version drops in 15 days.