“It’s more important than ever to build buzz,” Roger continues. “I know you’ve never been part of Grammy campaigning, but the more these guys are in the news from now until the votes are cast, the better chance they’ll have. Winning’s not just about talent, you know.”
I raise my eyebrows in the hope that he’ll elaborate.
“For instance, I need you to take over calling the paps,” he says, leaning back in his chair like a frat guy playing video games. “I don’t have time to do it anymore. I know you’re queasy about it, but I need you to man up.”
A spark of dread ignites in my stomach. “You’ve been calling them?”
Roger laughs and kicks his feet up on the console. His pointytoed shoes gleam. “I mean, not me, kid. I’m the CEO of the fucking label. But my assistant. He even convinced a photographer to tail Hannah when she went to visit a cemetery. Got some great shots of her in her hometown. Very on brand.”
The spark ignites into a blaze. “Roger. That’s an intense violation of her privacy.”
“Oh, don’t use your school marm voice. I’m not one of your musicians.” He chuckles again. “We handle the business side so these guys can stand around talking about how this album is the purification of their souls or whatever. You and I both know there is no album without sales. And how do you get sales? You need eyeballs. You think you would’ve landedJimmy KimmelorSNLor had all those singles charting without someone keeping the Saints in the conversation? I don’t think so.”
Before I can open my mouth, he cuts me off. “And don’t say it’s not about sales. I don’t care how much a person spouts about art—every motherfucking artist in the world would trade their souls for sky-high sales. There’s no such thing as selling out anymore. We’re all more honest about what we want these days.”
“I’m not mad about you trying to amp up their sales,” I say, feeling my face heat. “I’m mad about you manipulating them. Especially her.”
“Look, I didn’t know Sasha was going to say those things about her dead sister,” Roger says. “Musicians are unpredictable.”
“That wasyou? You got Sasha to talk shit on Instagram?”
“Sasha needed to get back in the conversation ahead of her album drop and the Saints needed the buzz. It was a win-win.”
“Sasha’s a Manifest client.” I feel stupid. I didn’t even see it. I’m not the puppeteer pulling strings like those Coachella producers claimed— that’s Roger, and he’s been pulling mine as much as the band’s.
“Listen to me.” My voice goes quiet, the way it does when I’m at my angriest. “You’re directly contributing to the deterioration of Hannah’s mental health, not to mention the health of the band. You’re destroying the thing you’re trying to create, and you’re too shortsighted to see it.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “I haven’t caused any of their conflict. I didn’t tell Ripper to talk shit on that podcast, or get Hannah drunk and make her fall off the stage. I’m just documenting their choices. And if we’re going to get real here, you’re the one infantilizing them.”
I climb to my feet, my swivel chair rolling behind me. “Excuse me?”
Roger stands to match me. His face is turning red. “You’re the one running around telling her what to do all the time. You’re a manager, Theodore, not a boyfriend or a parent.”
The pit in my stomach widens.
“I don’t give a fuck what you get up to on the side,” Roger says, his tone making me wince. “You interested in her? I couldn’t care less. What I do care about is you confusing where your loyalty lies.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re accusing me of being unprofessional, but how professional is it to torture your clients?”
Roger points a finger at me. “Easy, kid. You have too much on the line to be talking to me this way.”
The threat hangs between us. Slight movement draws my eyes to the glass, where I find Hannah, Kenny, and Ripper staring at us in wide-eyed shock. I’d forgotten that even though the sound travels only one way, they can still see us.
“Whoa,” Kenny whispers. The state-of-the-art microphones transmit it at twice the volume. “The Suits are brawling.”
“Why don’t you take five?” Roger’s voice is cold, like a disappointed father. “Come back when you’re ready to do your job again.”
I start to say something—then shake my head and shove past him out the door.
Chapter 40
Excerpt fromStereoguminterview, “Future Saints Drummer Kenny Lovins on Being and Nothingness (Yes, Really)” (Tuesday, September 24, 2024)
INTERVIEWER:Let’s dive straight into the deep end. What does being a drummer in a rock band mean to you?
KENNY LOVINS:I know some drummers might use this question to talk about how we’re the real unsung heroes. But I’ve never been interested in jockeying for the spotlight. So I’ll just say this: most people don’t realize how hard it is to keep a steady rhythm. You have your guitar players and keyboardists and maybe your bassists flying all over the place and your singers wailing and there’s this great temptation—it’s kind of a natural human instinct—to get distracted, pulled in to the theatrics. But your job as the drummer is to be the heartbeat. The center that carries the song forward no matter what anyone else is doing. My bandmate Hannah once called me the backbone of our band, and I take that responsibility seriously.
INTERVIEWER:You seem like a thoughtful dude. What drew you to music in the first place? What’s your earliest memory of it?
