Chapter 45
Theo
One of the greatest days in the studio with any band is when work on an album is done, and you huddle in the control room to listen to what they’ve made for the first time in its entirety.
There’s this awe; the songs that have lived as lyrics scribbled in journals, notes taped on walls, and wailing rifts in practice sessions—all these pieces from inside everyone’s heads—have somehow achieved an independent life.
Sometimes you’ll even forget you helped write a line or a drum fill and the power of it will strike you fresh.
Since I’ve never felt more deeply part of an album, listening day for the Saints is hitting me hard.
“Suit, the way you and Claudia mixed ‘Little Beasts’ is perfect,” Kenny says.
The band and I are clustered around the digital audio workstation in black swivel chairs, going through each track backward and forward.
All three of them prefer to listen with their eyes closed, which I find both charming and convenient.
It gives me a chance to study Hannah without her knowing, remembering the softness of her lips, the way her cheekbones and temples and golden hair felt under my fingertips.
I realize Kenny’s just given me a compliment and clear my throat.
“Thanks, Ken. But Claudia’s the real pro. ”
“You weren’t lying when you said you were good at producing.” Ripper drums his fingers along with the beat. “I’ll never doubt a Dartmouth grad again.”
The teasing is worth it to see the way Hannah’s mouth curls into a grin.
“You know what?” she says, her eyes still closed. “This album is good. Fuck the New York Times.”
Kenny pounds the console. “The New York Times can go straight to hell.”
“Told you.” Our weekend in Bonita Vista seems to have revived the Saints, exactly as I’d hoped. “People are going to love this album.”
A curt knock sounds at the door, startling everyone’s eyes open. I pause the playback.
“Probably just lunch. I told the studio to text me, but maybe they got their wires crossed. Hold on.” My chair clatters against the console as I stride to the door.
A young guy in a crisp blue suit stands in the hall. “Are you our delivery guy?” A bit overdressed, but no judgment.
He brushes past me into the room. All the Saints swivel to track him.
“Whoa, hold on.” I dart after him. “We’re in a confidential listening session. You can leave the sandwiches outside.”
“Roger Braverman needs five minutes of your time.” The guy can’t be older than twenty. He looks fresh out of college. “He’s on a call, but he’ll be right in.”
“Mind telling us who you are?” Hannah gives me an incredulous look. I shrug.
“I’m Mr. Braverman’s new assistant,” he says, folding his hands. “Five minutes, and then he has a flight to catch.”
“Okay.” Kenny laughs. “Very mysterious.”
“Hello, hello,” Roger rumbles, striding into the room and pocketing his phone. He’s traded his signature white ensemble for a slick black suit, but he moves the same way in his pointed-toe loafers, all fluid and easy. “How we doing, Saints?”
“Curious,” Hannah says bluntly.
Either because I’m the only one standing or because he wants to impart the sense that he and I are on the same team, Roger slings his arm over my shoulder.
“This guy.” He musses my hair in a paternal way.
“He’s in the studio every day, isn’t he?
Dressed like he’s one of the band. Gotta love the enthusiasm. ”
“Uh, Roger . . . ” I do my best to peer up at him.
“What’s this about?” He releases me and sighs.
“Look. I have some bad news. We’ve decided to press pause on the album release.
We don’t think it’s ready.” “What?” The room explodes, Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny rising to their feet.
“Hey, now.” Roger lifts his hands to quell the commotion. “Let’s stay calm.”
“Who’s this ‘we’ who decided it wasn’t ready?” I ask.
“The full executive team.” Roger gives me a level look. “Your bosses.”
“What’s not ready about it?” Ripper and Kenny move closer to Hannah’s sides. I’ve noticed they do this unconsciously when they’re stressed—literally flank one another.
“Is this about the review?” Kenny asks.
Roger slips his hands in his pockets. “The executive team at Manifest simply reevaluated and we think we’re better served shelving this album and going back to the drawing board.
If you grind, we’re confident we can have a new product in short order.
And obviously we’ll write an extension into your contract. ” He laughs. “No lawsuits from us.”
“Are you kidding?” Ripper blows out a deep breath. “You loved our album two weeks ago. And you really loved it when our songs were going viral and selling tickets.”
“Listen. I’m going to tell you something about this business,” Roger says.
“You can be on top of the world and then the next thing—bam! You’re cratering.
Maybe a bunch of projects you invested in, which you thought were going to be moneymakers, didn’t pan out.
You learn to be wiser with your money. Implement austerity measures. ”
I frown. “Roger, is something going on at Manifest?” I know record labels have a tendency to be boom-and-bust enterprises, famous for springing up and then folding after one bad investment, but Manifest is an institution.
It should be able to weather some hard times.
What’s got Roger talking about austerity measures?
He sidesteps the question. “Just imagine if we put out the album and your social media fans decide they’re bored with you and onto the next?
Or maybe they agree with the Times review.
We need this album to be a hit.” His eyes find mine and he shakes his head.
“We need it. It’s too risky. Better to hold out and keep working. ”
“Art is risk,” Kenny insists.
Roger pushes his aviators higher up his nose.
It hits me that he wore them so he wouldn’t have to look us in the eyes while delivering this news.
“I know you’re invested in the album. But once the disap-pointment passes, we can get cracking on a new product.
Test it every step of the way with reviewers and consumer audiences, figure out what resonates with the broadest possible market.
All right, that’s my five minutes.” He turns for the door. “Call me when you cool down.”
“Roger.” There’s such depth of feeling in Hannah’s voice that everyone goes silent. Roger pauses by the door.
“It’s not a product,” she says. “The album is our heart. It’s Ginny herself.”
Everyone remains frozen.
“Please,” she adds, and the sound of Hannah begging breaks my heart.
Roger inclines his head like it hits him too—but after a moment, he simply says, “I’m sorry,” and walks out, followed quickly by his assistant.
They leave a pall hanging over the room. I’m as shell-shocked as the band. More than that—betrayed. Angry that this has been pulled on me, on my band.
Ripper puts his arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “It’ll be okay. We just have to fight like always.”
Hannah closes her eyes. “I’m tired of fighting.”
Her defeat reminds me of the first night I met her—the way she’d sunk to her knees onstage and gazed out hopelessly at the crowd. I hadn’t known it, but she’d been ready to quit.
Kenny must see it, too, because he takes her by the shoulders and maneuvers her into one of the chairs. “I’m tired too. But this fight’s worth it.”
I kneel in front of Hannah, my throat thick. After everything we’ve gone through to get to this day, I can’t let the Saints’ victory be taken from them. “None of you have to fight.” I glance at Kenny and Ripper. “Not this time.”
Kenny frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Hate to break it to you, Suit,” Ripper says. “But your side’s the one saying it’s over.”
“That’s not my side. Not anymore.”
The Saints look at me like I’ve told them pigs can fly.
I scrub my hands over my face. I know I’m on the verge of blowing up everything I’ve ever worked for, and yet I feel remarkably calm. I meet Hannah’s eyes, try to show her I mean it. “Give me one day,” I say. “I have an idea.”