But not the Saints. In fact, you could argue that Cortland is just as famous for falling off the stage as she is for her music. Even though internet virality is what has propelled them to these new heights, they have little interest in it. (At one point, Ripper asked me if I knew how TikTok works.) There’s something refreshingly old-school about them, something refreshingly uncalculated. Cortland in particular is celebrated for being flawed and messy and someone to be taken seriously all at the same time, and she seems to give her fans permission to be those things as well.
This former tech reporter has never been comfortable being messy, though I’ll confess I’ve often longed to let my hair down. So—returning to that rager I mentioned at the beginning—it was with equal parts trepidation and excitement that I agreed to join the Saints at a Bernal Heights after-party following their Bellmore show. And boy, do I have a story for you . . .
Chapter 22
Theo
Saturday, May 11, 2024
I like to think I’m playing it cool about climbing aboard Manifest’s private jet. That’s one of the things I had to learn early on, working in this business: don’t bat an eye, no matter what, and you’re more likely to fit in. The Future Saints, however, are taking the opposite approach.
“Look at theseseats.” Kenny runs to one of the large, cushy chairs and shakes it like he’s going to rip it out by the screws. “This is real furniture.”
Ripper rushes past him. “There’s a dining table.” He slides in, planting himself at the bench. “We’re going to eat a meal thousands of feet in the air like astronauts. And they have real blankets too. Made of wool.”
“It’s like they’ve never seen tables or blankets before.” Hannah shoves her way down the aisle. Behind her, I chuckle. We’ve been polite but reserved toward each other since the Vegas show. A whole week of cautious navigation.
The flight attendant walks out of the back holding a green bottle of champagne in one hand and a plate of crystal flutes in another. “May I offer anyone a drink? Compliments of Mr. Braverman.”
Hannah, who’s in the process of lifting headphones over her ears, launches out of her seat. “Well, if it’s from Mr. Braverman . . . ”
Kenny and Ripper, to no one’s surprise, fall over themselves. But I wave away my glass, settling back into my chair and emptying my pockets instead.
The reason Manifest gifted us the use of this private jet is right here on my phone, saved as my new lock-screen photo: the Saints made the cover ofRolling Stone. It turns out we never should’ve doubted Matt. His article was so good the magazine’s executive editor green-lit it for the issue’s top story and flew a team of photographers out to Vegas to stage a photo shoot.
And what a cover. I don’t know how many times I’ve opened my phone to stare. In huge, swirling black letters, it roars: “All Hail the Queen of Sadness.” Then, lower and smaller, the subheader: “The Future Saints Usher in a Raw New Era of Rock.” Hannah’s front and center, glammed up but in her trademark disheveled way, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip, a saucy contrast to the look in her eyes, haunted and searching. She’s flanked by Ripper—shirtless, chest gleaming, mouth open in the middle of a shout—and Kenny, daisies poking through his twin braids, smiling beatifically. It’s the perfect encapsulation of the three of them.
After reading Matt’s article, a talent booker fromJimmy Kimmel Live!called to ask if the Saints could fill a last-minute slot. Now we’re on our way back to LA for the live taping—and apparently, when you’reRolling Stone– andJimmy Kimmel–level buzzy, you get the jet.
The Future Saints manage to drain the bottle of champagne during takeoff, and by the time we’re cruising through the clouds, everyone’s mellow and sleepy. I wish I could bottle this feeling. In a seat across from me, Hannah sinks back, closes her eyes, and starts humming. It’s catchy, a slow-burn tune with an undertone of longing.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Her eyes squint open, nearly the same blue as the sky outside the window. “Just an earworm.”
“I like it.”
She raises a brow.
“It’s got something.”
“You think? I was—”
Astonishingly, my phone rings. “Uh . . . ” I glance at it. “Hold that thought.” I pick up the phone and walk to the back of the plane, gripping the seats to steady myself.
“How are you calling me?” I ask as soon as I pick up. “I’m thousands of feet in the air.”
“The wonders of the good life, baby.” Roger’s voice is ebullient. “How you liking the private jet?”
“It’s amazing. Though I’m not sure if Bowie will ever forgive us for leaving him back with the bus.”
“What’s a Bowie?”
Before I can answer, Roger shouts at someone on his end. “Sorry—anyway,” he says. “Look, I’m calling with good news.”
“More?” I’ve spent my career at Manifest either fixing problem bands or firing them, which means I don’t have a lot of experience with good news. Is this how success works—like a snowball? Once you get a little, the world starts handing you everything, and it all piles up?
“The biggest news so far,” Roger promises. “The head ofSNLbooking’s an old friend. I pitched her the Saints, showed her how many hits they’re getting on the web, and she bit. She wants them on the show.”
