Harry Bertora draws us into a world poised between salvation, where each beat throbs with moral tension. In “Saints and Sinners,” he does more than sing, he confesses, urging us into the crucible of double lives exposed under the glare of neon and in the darkness of desire.
“Saints and Sinners” is emotional without being melodramatic, no broad-brushed clichés, but pointed observations about the contradictions that we all bear. Bertora’s voice, warm and slightly husky, isn’t interested in seizing the spotlight so much as sharing a confidence, and the song has a sense of intimacy to it even at its polished sheen. And so there is heartbreak in confession, and something honest in admitting both the saintly impulses and the sinner’s regrets.
The production lands like chattery glass shards, synth-pop sleek and serrated, an ’80s gleam that never smacks of retro just to be retro. The driving bass line and the tremulously arpeggios roll beneath an atmospheric underpinning that Bertora leans into as he lets tension shift between verses and choruses. When the chorus lands, it hits with thrilling lift, a blur of light-voiced vocals and thrusting rhythms that feel to be cradling the weight of its title in every syllable.
The song’s final minutes never really resolves, but it doesn’t sit stalemated between states either, constantly refusing to let an ending come clean. It is this tug-of-war, this unwillingness to take sides, that makes “Saints and Sinners” so absorbing. It’s synth-pop with soul, danceable, yes, but also heartily felt. Bertora has crafted a song that glints in the light and is touching, one that you think, not just hear.
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