Chapter 1 #2
Her eyes brighten. I was right—that’s some zealous love right there.
“They were electric. Oozing talent and tragically underappreciated. I was a freshman at Cal State when they were seniors, and I swear, I knew the first time I saw them play that I was witnessing magic. And no offense, but ‘Head in the Sand’ is for fair-weather fans. You need to go back to College-Educated Idiots, their first album. That’s my favorite. ”
Onstage, the band launches into another new song, this one as bleak as the first. Roger was right. He’d told me the sample they’d sent of their new material wasn’t working, and that, on top of their out-of-control behavior, required an emergency intervention.
I nod at Minnie. “Here’s what I want to know. What’s the deal with their new direction? Where’s it coming from?”
A deep voice answers me. “They’ve fallen off the wagon.
Literally and figuratively.” The tattooed bartender slides our drinks across the bar.
“Minnie’s right. The Saints used to put on a good show.
Hannah was born and raised here in Bonita Vista.
Kind of a hometown hero. Everyone in town roots for her.
That’s why Aki, the owner, still says yes whenever her label reaches out to book them.
I warned him if he let the band come back, they’d just crash and burn like the last show. And yet here we are.”
“Any theories on why they’re spiraling?”
“No theories necessary,” Minnie says, sipping her neon-green cocktail. If memory serves, it’s a kamikaze, the drink of choice for nineteen-year-old college girls. Minnie seems to be clinging to her college years in a lot of ways. “It’s obvious, right?”
“It’s not—” A weird thought pops into my head. “Because their manager passed away?”
Minnie’s eyes widen. “Of course it is.”
The timing does line up. I’d read that the Future Saints’ previous manager died unexpectedly around ten months ago.
There wasn’t much coverage, just a couple of RIPs on fan pages, and Roger hadn’t even remembered until I asked.
Ten months is about the length of time the band has been phoning in their tour gigs and getting wasted and belligerent onstage, according to our venue reps.
It’s certainly the length of time the Saints have failed to produce the new album they owe us.
“So they were close to their old manager?”
The tattooed bartender huffs in surprise.
“Uh, yeah,” Minnie says, giving me a strange look.
It’s grief, then: the underlying issue sucking the soul out of the Saints.
“Honestly, I’m worried they’ve lost their magic for good,” Minnie says, cradling her ridiculous drink.
The bartender leans his hip against the bar.
“I’m worried Hannah will go the way of Janis Joplin.
I’m serious. I see a crazy number of shows working here, and she’s in a league of her own.
When Aki asked me to open a bottle of tequila for her, I was tempted to fill an empty with water out of mercy. ”
As if on cue, the band’s song stops and Hannah runs a hand over her glistening forehead, pushing back her sweaty hair.
Her wrists are layered so thick with bracelets they reach halfway up her forearms. “Last song,” she grunts, and she brings her hand down hard against the guitar strings. The harsh notes ring into the hall.
“What about Kenny and Ripper?” I ask. “What do they think—”
“I’m told my longing is a problem.”
Hannah’s voice, husky and raw, reverberates through the room, silencing me. Instinctively, the three of us turn to look at the stage. She’s standing taut in front of the mic, fingers strumming her guitar, but her eyes are closed.
“You say it makes you sad to see.” There’s something about her voice that makes me set my drink down. It’s a live wire. I notice the audience, even the ones in the back who were inching toward the exit, have stilled.
“But nothing makes sense to me these days.” Her eyes are still closed, but her voice is lifting.
The melody is beautiful, haunting. “When people speak, it’s foreign language.
” The spotlight finds her, but it’s unnecessary.
Everyone in the room’s eyes are on her, waiting in suspense.
Her voice turns plaintive. “All I want is to sleep forever. Six feet under would be better.”
“Shit,” Minnie whispers, and I agree, because Hannah’s stripping bare, confessing right in front of us. For the first time, the way she’s singing—eyes closed, face expressionless—makes the song better, playing against the weight of her words.
“You want me to get better,” she sings, and Kenny comes in with the drums, careful tips of the cymbals to accentuate her words, “Be the girl I used to be. Live the life you dreamed for me.”
Ripper joins, his bass making the song richer, more complex, and together they start building a crescendo. Everyone can feel it; the song is climbing, leading us somewhere.
My arms break out in goose bumps. This song is better than good— I’ve never heard anything like it. The way Hannah’s voice sears, growing hungrier and angrier by the second. People lift their phones to record.
“Jesus,” says the bartender, but I don’t spare him a glance, because I can’t take my eyes off her.
Unbidden, the memory floats back, what Roger told me the first time we met—that with musicians you usually get one of three things: looks, talent, or presence, and if you have to choose, always go with presence.
At the time I’d privately disagreed, thought talent was better, but now, for the first time, I understand. Hannah Cortland is a magnet.
The song climbs higher, and suddenly she breaks into a new guitar riff, harder and faster, and the drums speed up, and she’s singing again, the same words about longing and disassociation, but this time, she opens her eyes and looks at us.
This time, her voice isn’t plaintive but hard and unflinching.
We’re nervous, the crowd and I. We hold our breath.
My heart’s picking up the way it used to when I was thirteen, sitting in front of my dad’s record player, listening to the chorus build in my favorite songs, knowing the climax was coming, waiting to tip over the edge into a sea of feeling.
I see her take a deep breath, filling her lungs, and when she belts, “But I just want to sleep forever.” I swear to God she’s talking to me.
I want to put my drink down and cut through the crowd to be by her side.
Before our eyes, Hannah Cortland drops to her knees.
The audience freezes, shocked to see her this vulnerable, shocked to find her looking back at us for the first time all night.
But Ripper and Kenny don’t miss a beat, and the song explodes around her.
From down on her knees her powerful voice fills the room, soaring over the guitars: “You want me to get better, be the girl I used to be, live the life you dreamed for me.” The music is unrelenting.
“I’ll get better—I’ll get better—I’ll get better. ”
Without warning the song cuts out so there’s only the reverberation of the guitars, the fading cymbals. Her voice is a memory. She stands up, lifts her guitar over her shoulders, and walks offstage.
“Good night, Bonita Vista,” says Ripper quickly, and then he and Kenny follow. The crowd is left stunned. People stop recording and turn to each other with wide eyes. The chatter in the room builds back as the stage lights flash.
I turn back to my companions at the bar. The bartender has given up the pretense of working; he stands with his hands braced on the bar, eyes on the empty stage. Minnie’s hand flutters to her chest.
“That was . . . ” Her voice is faint. “I don’t even know what to say.”
The bartender shakes his head. “That was good, is what that was. Fucking tragic, but good.”
I palm through my wallet and peel off a few bills, enough for a generous tip, and place the money on the bar.
Backstage, the band will be coming down off their performance high.
Postshow moments are a unique window of time when musicians are needy and therefore open to suggestion. I need to get back there.
“Thanks for the conversation,” I say to Minnie and the bartender. “I mean it.”
Minnie shakes her head at me. “Where are you rushing off to? Didn’t that song just kill you?”
“I’ve got to get backstage,” I say, pounding a fist on the bar and spinning away.
“Hey,” the bartender calls. “Who did you say you were again?”
I spin back to face them, but don’t stop jogging. “Theo Ford. The Saints’ new manager.”