that filled her face. The way she’d hugged me so tight. Slowly, I shake my head. “No, actually.” Instead, I dial a different number. A few seconds later, she answers. “Theo.” My mom sounds so happy. “I was just thinking about you.”
Chapter 57
Excerpt fromPitchforkarticle, “REVIEW: The Future Saints,One Day, Virginia” (Monday, December 2, 2024)
For those living under a rock, 2024 was the Year of the Saints. The California rockers have been industry darlings, leading to sky-high anticipation for their next full-length album. In October, a music critic at theNew York Timesgot his hands on an early copy and released a scathing review. Apparently, the fact that songwriter Cortland is a woman in her twenties writing about grief and depression—aka Serious Man Topics—instead of boys and breakups pissed off the critic, who came across sounding cranky and out of touch (side note: Should our colleagues at theTimesconsider hiring some fresh blood?). The review caused the Saints’ label, Manifest Records, to consider pulling the plug on the album before a wave of public backlash convinced them to reverse their decision.
Okay, now that you’re caught up, what does all this drama add up to? If you’re the Saints, probably one hell of a headache. If you’re us, one hell of a lead-up. Now that we atPitchforkhave gotten our grubby little hands on the brand-new, just-releasedOne Day, Virginia, we’re here with an unprecedented joint review (mostly because we were all fighting to write it).
OVERALL OPINION: Holy fucking shit. Yes, that is the collective professional opinion of five highly trained musiccritics.One Daywalks a tightrope few artists can pull off, both a face-melting primal scream, seeing the Saints lean fully into the darker, more metal sound they’ve been experimenting with all year, and an elegy, with the kind of gutting, gossamer lyrics that will make you want to tattoo quotes on your body.
Musically, the Saints are at the top of their game. Bassist Ripper Ravishankar surprisingly steps into the spotlight, playing lead guitar for half the album—and he absolutely shreds. Where’s this man been hiding? His spine-tingling, wreck-the-arena energy that was caught on viral video when the Saints debuted the track “I Need Some Help” at the Dolby Live in Vegas is somehow amped up even higher on the album. And we demand to witness how fast Ravishankar’s fingers must be flying on the introspective yet trippy “Another Story About Wolves.” Get this man a solo album—he deserves it.
Let’s not forget Kenny Lovins, whose drumming is a revelation, particularly on tracks “Little Beasts” (holy hands-on-fire, Batman!) and “Six Feet Under,” the ragged, visceral single that started it all. In aStereoguminterview earlier this year, Lovins called himself the “backbone” of the group, and we think he’s not giving himself enough credit. His work is drumming at its most committedandvirtuosic— yes, Lovins is the steady beat that keeps you moving, but this album gives him plenty of space to play and invent. And when he does, the man’s sheer love of music is contagious.
As for Cortland herself, the controversial singer-songwriter over whom so much digital ink has been spilled? One of the most immediate impressions you get from her lyrics is of hyper self-awareness. Even while she’s in the throes of grief, Cortlandseesherself in the throes of grief, and she presents this double consciousness as the curse of the artist: when you’re highly sensitive and in the habit of mining your interior life for art, Cortland seems to say, you can’t ever just feel—you’re alwayswatchingyourself feel, both observer andsubject. She represents this double consciousness by writing about her grief as if it’s a literal ghost she can converse with, a spirit outside herself.
Other critics have taken issue with the fact that Cortland takes her emotions seriously, presenting them without qualifiers or minimizing language, augmenting her lyrics with epic sounds. She doesn’t feel the need to be subtle, or contract big questions about love and afterlife into small, winking moments.
One Day, Virginiais defined by the loss of Virginia Cortland, Cortland’s younger sister and the Saints’ former manager. But to say this is simply an album about grief is to misunderstand it.One Dayis about the oldest fantasy known to man: wanting to raise the dead. The sheer sonic ambition of the album feels like an attempt to transcend our status as time-bound animals raging against the dying of the light. The fact that this is an ultimately impossible task makes the album an elegy dedicated not just to Virginia, but to the human condition, which the band understands as inherently tragic. It is our fate, the Saints seem to say, to live our lives loving others even though that very act is the thing that will ultimately unravel us.
But if you don’t hear hope in this album, you need to get your ears checked. Even the title is about the promise of one day being reunited with the people we love, one day doing their legacy justice, showing them exactly how much they were loved. One day, one day, one day—the refrain epitomizes the sense of hopeful deferral that defines both the album as well as the Future Saints’ very name. This hopefulness comes across most profoundly on the final track of the album, “Tomorrow Is the Beginning of Forever,” rumored to be the last song the band wrote.
All in all, it’s a spectacular accomplishment. That makes the un-precedented place the band is in right now even moreof a potential tragedy. To top off their busy year, they received their first-ever Grammy nods, including in two of the most prestigious categories. Yet the noms followed on the heels of Cortland’s public spiraling, a series of events covered rather abhorrently by the media. Her reps have confirmed she’s currently seeking help at the Atone Treatment Center, an addiction and mental health facility favored by celebs for its strict privacy policies.
With Hannah off the grid, and the rest of the band going silent, forgoing press, everyone, including us, is left with a burning question: After a year of triumphs and tribulations, will the Saints even make it to the Grammys?
ALBUM SCORE: 9.5/10
Chapter 58
Hannah
Friday, December 20, 2024
Just to make sure I’ve got this straight,” says Dr. Xavier, leaning back in her chair in the Atone Treatment Center’s beachfront garden, in the middle of yet another beautiful, sunny day. “The entire time I was treating you, you were hiding the fact that you believed your dead sister was a ghost you could talk to?”
“I wouldn’t saybelieved.” I go for a smile, but Dr. X doesn’t return it. Even her silver bob is extra severe today. “More like strongly wished.” She rests her hands in her lap and cocks an eyebrow. It’s surreal to finally meet the doc in person, especially here at rehab, which has already been one of the more surreal experiences of my life. Atone is a recovery center right on the beach in Malibu. In some ways, being here feels sturdier and more intense than daily life, with all the time I spend talking to specialists. But in other ways, being so removed from the world has made these past weeks feel like a waking dream.
I tap a rhythm with my bare foot on the grass as a flock of brightly colored butterflies flit over the rose garden. No matter what strange rehab paradises I find myself in, I’m stillme, which means I think best in tempo. “I will admit, though: when you phrase it like that, I sound a little nuts.”
Not even a sliver of a smile from Dr. X.
I sigh. “I appreciate it, but you really didn’t have to drive all the way to Malibu to meet me in person. Especially so close to Christmas.” There’s a part of me that’s grateful I’ll be here for the holidays. I don’t think I’m ready to struggle through another Christmas in Bonita Vista without Ginny.
“You had a major depressive episode that was broadcast for all the world to see.” Dr. X’s tone is softer than I expected. “Followed by the release of your album and nominations for the top accolades in your field. That’s a pretty wild roller coaster to ride. And as much as I respect my peers here, I felt compelled to see how you’re handling the roller coaster in person.” She dips her head. “Congratulations on the Grammys, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I’d received the news from the director of Atone him-self. For my mental health, and the privacy of other residents, I wasn’t allowed any communication with the outside world. No cell phones, internet, magazines, or newspapers, which I was delighted to discover still existed. And absolutely no visitors, Dr. X excluded. It’s so strange not knowing how Kenny, Ripper, or Theo reacted to the nominations that part of me still hasn’t accepted the news as real.
Dr. X peers at me. “So? How are you doing?”
I draw my legs up on the wrought-iron chair and wrap my arms around them. In the distance, birds swoop through the treetops. I watch a few other residents ambling down the walking trail and sigh. “You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“Some days, I’m okay. Other days, I’m as lonely and furious as I’ve been since Ginny died. Doc, sometimes I get mad at the fuckingsunfor rising. Sometimes I still hate other people just for being alive instead of her.”
“Those reactions are normal. They’ll pass with time. Inventing a ghost, less so. Where did that come from?”
