“You Shouldn’t Know (But You Know)”, my winter single of 2022, is a big headful and a Grand Ambition, a Jolly Jape of notes and words, but it isn’t particularly deep and thank God for that. It’s one part Brian Wilson, one part Roy Orbison, one part Rufus Wainwright and one part Puccini. There are all manner of influences hiding about, sublime to ridiculous. There are, god forbid, the Moog-y predations of Tangerine Dream. There is ‘70s soft rock. There are Sondheim homages in the vulnerability and child-like sentiments of the verses. Randy Newman peers suspiciously out from behind the wall of blue-eyed soul and the 4-part chorales, a little nonplussed to be there amongst all the sonic jewelry. He speaks in the two rye words of the conclusion, “…you know…” just as Marvin Gaye brings the song in with the simple evocation of “…sister….”, an old trick that universalizes that which would tend to be interpreted as romantic. It is that 1965 moment when the Beatles starting calling their lovers “my friend”, a sub-distinction that complicates things entirely.

The hook of the tune came in a brief download last summer as I warmed up on my Rhodes at an outdoor gig. The chorus was pretty instant and I wasn’t entirely sure what it was about. I wrote the rest of the song once, twice, three times. It was difficult to create a life-support system for the clever, throw-away hook. What I finally ended up with was Sherwoodian indeed, a verse that was both deeply meaningful and capable of being blown away by a stiff wind, vulnerable and wide-eyed, a prechorus that re-purposed ii-V for the umpteenth time. The instrumental sections are in turn droll and arch; the first an acoustic guitar and theremin (theremin!) minuet that dances atop pure Verdian opera (with castanets!), the second a potentially triggering but humorous ‘70s Wendy Carlos Moog freakout atop swaths of “Abbey Road” harmonies. One does notice that the synth solo is blistering but the path to this place leads through the Forest Of Absurdity, of that there is no question.

The thing, of course, that one knows but couldn’t know is the knowledge that presents itself through good old intuition. The shitty people about who make decisions based on “their feeeeelings” and argue that they should make your decisions based on your “feeeeeelings” don’t get to own the value of intuition. In fact, they make it that much harder for the more empirically-minded amongst us to honor ours. The truth is that every day you know things that you couldn’t and shouldn’t know. But what are they? Or what aren’t they? Anything that is better understood down the barrel of a microscope is not subject to your intuition. Your sense of people in your sphere, your sense of yourself, your capacity to look at any given chessboard and see how future moves will be defined by current ones, that’s intuition land.

Also, if you’re stupid, go ahead and give your stupid intuitions a pass.

“You Shouldn’t Know (But You Know)” sits harmonically squarely in post-Beatles pop and R&B, a series of hoary harmelodic moves that distinguish the sections by hewing to the lyrical sentiment. The verses are open, simple, innocent and self-forgiving with their naïve I-ii/I-Vb7sus4/Vb7 structure. The bridges convey a certain mystical wonder through Pink Floyd’s ii/Vs that accommodate small Hindustani flourishes. The choruses are wry like the hook phrase, a steady downward fall from IV to ii to I to b7. The choruses are in the subdominant D of the song’s key of A to give the requisite baroque lift that makes the mind see “chorus”.

The interesting harmonic move that gives the song ambition and scope is the fall to the key of G for the instrumental bridge. It’s unusual for a pop song to fall in key but sometimes a rich deflation is just what is ordered. The fact that we are falling into a section that takes the piss out of Italian opera with a wonderfully absurd theremin entrance over the “Carmen” bassline and castanets rather explains the eccentricity of the move. The second section of the instrumental area quotes the bridge and then cadences back to the verse through a comically dark Bb9b5-G minor/D- Ab major 7th- Bb6/9, a series of chords that evoke a Disney haunted house that turn the rich accompanying 4-part harmonies into the phony wails of ghosts on the payroll.

The other use of the haunted cadence is to bring us back to a quiet repeat of the chorus in the key of F, another whole step drop. A skipped chord and a convenient vocal jump suggests the return to home D major and for a moment we are happily and kismetically dropped in and out of the final climax of “Happiness Is A Warm Gun” Lennon’s finest White Album moment.

The final double chorus of “You Shouldn’t Know (But You Know)” reveals the central game of the track; a battle for supremacy between the lead vocal and the background harmonies. Over the course of the four repeats the background vocals take over center stage and relegate the lead vocal to chasing fruitlessly after them as they repurpose the earlier second verse melody into a countermelody that throws on horns and storms the capitol of center stage: “…I still remember…walking a crooked mile…”.

“You Shouldn’t Know (But You Know)” doesn’t exist without:

-“Living In A Haunted Heart” by XTC

-Any of the sappier and more wide-eyed moments in most Sondheim musicals

-“Poses” by Rufus Wainwright (as usual)

-“We Can Work It Out” by The Beatles

-“Nessun Dorma” by Puccini

-“Good Vibrations” by The Beach Boys

-“Happiness Is A Warm Gun” by The Beatles

-“Breath” by Pink Floyd