Chapter 1
Theo
Saturday, April 13, 2024
The woman on the stage is haunted. I see it the moment she walks out, but no one else in the audience seems to have noticed—they’re all still laughing and joking as if nothing’s wrong. For a second, I forget that my career rests in this woman’s hands. I’m rooted to the floor, mesmerized by how protectively she wears her aloofness, how obvious the vulnerability she’s trying to mask.
I can understand why she wouldn’t want to be here on this wornout stage at the Hideout, playing a venue well past its prime in a California beach town too far north of Los Angeles to count as relevant. But this is also the only place she knows how to be—under a spotlight, her baby-blue Jazzmaster guitar strapped to her chest, living or dying by what the sound of her voice and the power of her words can do to a bunch of strangers.
It took effort to land in the same room as her. I’d had to cancel my meetings and fly cross-country into LAX, rent a car, and drive two hours north up the 101. But the truth is, it’s nice to be out of the office and back in the scene. The stale beer sticking to my shoes and herbal scent of old weed remind meof the shows I used to crash as a teenager in my own shitty dive bar back in Virginia.
The crowd here skews young, and they’re dressed like the band: baggy pants and hoodies, too warm and oversize for California. They have slender tattoos on their fingers and septum piercings and hair dyed pastel colors. West Coast hipsters: more sun bleached and skateboard friendly than the ones I’m familiar with. There are about fifty people total, which is less than you’d want for a band six years into their career on a major label. But the energy in the room—the low thrum of excitement—reminds me of my glory days, back when I was still only a fan, with a nose for bands that had yet to be discovered. Even though the crowd is small, they’re passionate.
Yet none of the band members have made eye contact with the crowd since they walked onstage. There’s Kenny Lovins on the drums, Tarak “Ripper” Ravishankar on bass, and the haunted Hannah Cortland, lead singer and guitar. Hannah holds a bottle of liquor by the neck—tequila, judging by the color—and sets it near her feet. When she finally takes stock of the audience, she looks through the crowd rather than at us.
I’m starting to wonder if every rumor I’ve heard about her is actually true.
I push past people to get a better look. For months the Future Saints have ignored my calls and emails, forcing me to come in person. Now that I finally have them in front of me, I’m eager to see if the reality matches the lore. I know their origin story, how the band met while freshmen at Cal State Long Beach. I’ve memorized the anecdotes about those early days they recycle in interviews: how they would skip class to write songs, smoke pot, and catch waves. They’re mythmaking stories that tell me the Saints want the world to see them as West Coast chill, a handful of surfer kids whojust happened to fall into music. Album art for their past four albums cements the breezy image: pastel colors, hazy lines, palm trees, blue skies.
And maybe they used to live up to their own myths. But not anymore. At this point in my career, I can diagnose most band problems with a quick glance: the musicians who are too drunk or high onstage, whose egos have grown toxic, who are in over their heads. And as soon as the Saints start playing, I see they’re suffering from not one but all of those problems.
Kenny’s long blond hair is held back by a playful floral headband, his T-shirt already starting to soak through with sweat, hands flying as he pounds the drums, a pure workman. Ripper’s a tall, lean guy with a shaved head and finely wrought cheekbones, wearing painted-on jeans. In the middle of Hannah’s guitar solo, he tugs off his rainbow LGBTQ-rights shirt and receives a wave of shouts.
And then there’s Hannah herself. My eyes keep finding her, like she’s the source of gravity in the room, or else my instincts sense she’s the wildcard, a potential danger. She’s lit by the venue’s swirling lights, which catch the dust motes in the air so it looks like she’s singing in a sea of stars. I’ve seen pictures of her, of course, but some people hit different in person, and she’s one of them. I knew she had messy sunshine-blond hair with midnight roots, that she dressed like she just rolled out of bed, with her ripped-up T-shirts, but there’s a rawness to her I find impossible to turn away from.
For a full hour I stand in the crowd, watching the Saints coast through their set list. It’s almost laughable, the light, breezy singles coming from three people who look anything but happy to be here. Their performance is rote. There’s no soul. And as the set goes on, I can feel the crowd growing restless watching Hannah drink from the liquor bottle, her movements increasingly sloppy. When you’re up onstage,no one wants anything less than your whole heart and soul. Audiences are like lovers that way.
When the Saints finally strike the last note, Kenny’s cymbals shimmering, I prepare myself for my own showtime backstage. But then Hannah grips the microphone, and I freeze.
“We’ve got a few new songs for you,” she mumbles, and before the crowd can register this news with disappointment or glee, she squats for her bottle again, tipping her head back and swallowing a quick mouthful. She tries to stand but loses her balance, catching herself on her hands and knees.
A low, embarrassed murmur travels through the crowd.
Some guy behind me yells: “Feed her more alcohol!” and there’s laughter, the kind that says the crowd isn’t with you. Hannah rights herself and raises her middle finger. Then she says something over her shoulder, talking to thin air.
The rumors are true: the Saints are a disaster. Luckily, although my title at Manifest Records is technically artist relations manager, I’ve developed a niche specialization in disasters. I’m the Fixer of the label (although some musicians call me the Grim Reaper). Whenever Manifest needs to cut ties with an underperforming band, I’m the person our CEO, Roger Braverman, assigns. It’s a job no other manager wants, but I’ve gotten so good at it—at letting musicians down easy, creating minimum stress for the higher-ups—that I’ve built quite a reputation. The double standard goes like this: at twenty-eight, Kenny, Ripper, and Hannah are considered too old to be up-and-comers. At the exact same age, I’m the label’s young rising star.
When Roger signed the Saints six years ago—during the height of the modern California-rock craze—they had promise, all young and shiny and hopeful. I’ve studied dozens of their recordings—bootleg videos from old shows and one low-budget music video Manifest funded for “Head in theSand,” which everyone thought was going to be their breakout hit—and the gulf between the band in those videos and the one in front of me now is astonishing. Maybe the years of middling sales, of never achieving the success they dreamed of, have finally taken their toll, or maybe it’s something else. The problem is, I need to squeeze one more good record from the Saints before we can cut them loose. Which means I need them shiny and hopeful again, at least temporarily. My promotion hangs in the balance.
More than anything, I need intel. I scan the bar and catch sight of a woman who’s been parked on a stool with the best view of the stage all night. I know her type. Every band, no matter how small, has a superfan. It’s the friend of a friend or random stranger who happened to hear the band play on a day when their heart was wide open, or their needs sky-high, and the music gave form to their feelings. This woman mouthed every word.
I sidle up to the bar, catch the eye of the superfan, and smile. She’s in her early twenties, with lavender hair and an eyebrow ring, perfectly at home in this crowd. “Hey,” I say. “You like the band?”
“Like?” The meager word seems to offend her. “I’ve been to thirty of their shows.”
Thirty?I bite back a question about what the hell she does for a living and instead say, “Wow. I guess you’re the perfect person to ask.”
She cocks her head, intrigued. “About what?”
Onstage, the Saints launch into the first of their new songs. The tone is bleak, a complete departure from their old breezy-rock sound. The bartender, a guy whose thick neck is covered in swirling tattoos, chooses that moment to slope over. “What can I get you?”
I smile at the superfan. “Let me thank you in advance with a drink.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll have my usual,” she tells the bartender.
“Plus a Jack and Coke, please.” I nod my thanks, then hold out my hand. “I’m Theo.”
She shakes it. “Minnie. Let me guess—you’re in a band too?”
