Fantastic Cat

Fantastic Cat came within a whisker of collective extinction. Separately, and at different moments, each musician endured shattering romantic loss, served time behind bars, achieved sobriety, walked away from music altogether, rekindled ties with a once-distant relative, resumed writing songs, crashed to their lowest point, crossed paths with an enigmatic stranger who altered their outlook, abandoned music a second time, squared their forward-thinking politics against a rigid traditional upbringing, and fully claimed the unfiltered force of their own desire. All of it unfolded across one memorable summer.

Anyone encountering the account might suspect the group had simply crammed every available music-bio trope into a single block in a calculated bid for attention. Such skepticism, however, explains precisely why GQ now controls Pitchfork. The episodes are genuine, and if they happen to supply the sort of uplifting headline that both editors and sponsors prize, so be it.

Two years earlier the quartet existed only as an obscure rock act whose devoted audience consisted mainly of Heaven’s Gate members. Everything shifted after they issued their debut, The Very Best Of Fantastic Cat, an award-eligible release that drew coverage no one could fabricate. USA Today announced, “We don’t have a music writer anymore,” NPR found multiple copies waiting in the mail, and The New York Times’ Jon Pareles replied, “I’m currently out of the office and will respond when I return.”

Fame briefly clouded the supergroup’s judgment. A chain of outsized incidents—too improbable to itemize—nearly erased all they had gained, yet they clawed back from each reversal in a manner perfectly suited to a Judd Apatow–produced HBO Max documentary, or at minimum a prominent Spotify playlist slot.

The band has returned, older than before, sweeping across America and the more agreeable corners of Europe behind the forthcoming album Now That’s What I Call Fantastic Cat. Although the record remains unreleased, industry projections and corporate forecasts already mark it as an inevitable commercial triumph.

A pilgrimage through the Pocono Mountains’ spiritual vortices supplied the spark. There the musicians sought expanded consciousness by ingesting antacids, sampling mushrooms (chiefly porcini), and microdosing assorted hard seltzers. The resulting sound fused Christopher Cross with Kris Kristofferson, merging stepdad rock and in-law country into the sort of album that earns respect from the songwriters other songwriters least admire. No tape rolled during those sessions, leaving them unpreserved.

What ultimately reached the label is a different set of songs that satisfies, yet never surpasses, the minimum Grammy® eligibility thresholds across every major televised category. Now That’s What I Call Fantastic Cat!