In 2009, I started writing songs, locked in the bedroom of my mom’s
house in Burbank, no clue what I was going to do with my life. I had
just dropped out of college (not the first time I had dropped out of
school) and was living back in my home state of California, with no
fucking idea what my life was about to become. Everyday I would write
a song or two about the angst, confusion, anxiety, and existential
dread I felt as an early 20-something college drop out. I would sit in
that little room, on a mattress on the floor, and have what felt to me
like a therapy session with my guitar and a notepad. I started sending
these songs to my friend Bobb Bruno, who I’d known since I was 17,
and he started sprinkling his parts on top of them. I really wish I
could explain Best Coast’s story in a more profound way, but in all
honesty, I can’t—because I remember so little of it. Before I knew
it, we were a band with a record deal touring the world, playing on
late night TV, signing peoples LP sleeves, and doing music videos with
Drew Barrymore. The majority of the time that my band was taking off,
I was stuck in a dark daze. My romantic relationship was a topic of
conversation, my cat was asked about in interviews, my drug and
alcohol abuse was on public display. Everyday was like Groundhog’s
Day—I was repeating the same self-destructive patterns day in an day
out.
We played Lollapooloza in 2011 and I literally started the set by
flipping someone off in the crowd and saying, “Fuck you, we’re
Best Coast.” I didn’t do that because I was some badass Joan Jett
rock star. I did that because I was deeply miserable and deeply
insecure about what you thought of me so I wanted you to see me as
someone who didn’t give a fuck.
After we finished the album cycle for California Nights, something
terrifying happened to me. I felt creatively paralyzed. I couldn’t
write music. For the first time in my entire life, I had nothing to
say. There was so much bubbling inside of me, so many things
happening, so much to process, but I couldn’t get any of it out. I
didn’t leave my house. I drank wine alone on my couch. I watched
every season of Vanderpump Rules available on Hulu. Trump had won the
election. I was miserable and nothing was ever going to change. One
day, I locked myself in my closet and I forced myself to write. It was
the first time in years I was able to get something out. And out came
“Everything Has Changed.” The song was like a vision of life I
wished I was living. A life in which things didn’t look so foggy. A
life in which I didn’t drink anymore. It wasn’t the life I was
living. Not yet. But that song was prophetic. It described the life I
would soon be living.
I guess it’s no secret that I was a bit of a “party girl” in the
early stages of Best Coast. My life went from college drop-out to
Billboard-charting indie musician in a very short period of time. No
one teaches you how to handle success or failure. I had zero coping
skills. I turned to the only help I could think of, numbing the
problems and the pain away. And it worked, until it didn’t. On
November 12, 2017, I decided that enough was enough and made the
decision to get sober. It’s been hard, it’s been beautiful, it’s
been scary—and something I’m proud of. I can’t tell the story of
this album without mentioning my sobriety, because it’s a huge part
of this story.
Always Tomorrow is the story of where I was and where I am now. As
well as the struggles I am still learning to identify and figure out
because lets face it, life is fucking hard, and like I said before,
there is no guidebook. Some days I wake up and I feel like I’m on
top of the world and I forget about everything that’s ever bummed me
out, and other days, it all comes flooding back. This album is about
leaving the darkness for the light, but still understanding that
nothing is ever going to be perfect. It’s an album about attempting
to fix your broken patterns and learning to get out of your own way.
It’s about burning it all down and starting from scratch even when
the idea of that is fucking terrifying. Closing one chapter and moving
onto the next even when you have no idea what is on the other side.
Acceptance. It’s about taking a gigantic leap of faith.
I hope this record helps people. It’s easier to stay comfortable in
the insanity, but for me, there just came a time where I had to get
off the ride. I had to look at life and ask, Why am I still doing
this? I was writing the same song over and over again: I’m
miserable! But I wasn’t doing much to change that. I still fail at
times, but I’m less afraid of failing than ever before. This record
is the story of a second chance.
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24/09/2020 Last update