Maia and the Squires – “Long Gone”: A Dream-Drenched Lament for Love That Refuses to Let Go
There is a particular kind of ache that lingers in the quietest corners of a room, in objects left untouched, in words that never quite reach their destination. Maia and the Squires capture that ache with devastating clarity on their single “Long Gone”, a track that feels at once intimate and cinematic, fragile and ferocious.
Formed in Berlin in 2024, Maia and the Squires are anything but geographically confined. The band brings together Phan Anh from Hanoi on guitar, Merlin Ricco Laudien from Buxtehude on drums, Ulysse Zimmer from Vaux on bass, and Maia Luker from Buenos Aires on vocals and guitar. This cultural confluence breathes a restless, borderless quality into their sound. Their musical language draws from 90s alternative and shoegaze textures, channeling the hazy distortion of My Bloody Valentine, the emotional volatility of Deftones, the introspective tension of Radiohead, and the modern catharsis of Wolf Alice, Mitski, and The Cranberries. Yet what they produce is not homage. It is translation. It is memory refracted through amplifiers.
“Long Gone” stands as one of their most personal statements to date. Written by Maia about her grandmother and the painful reality of watching a loved one slip into mental illness, the song does not sensationalize suffering. Instead, it narrows its lens to the quiet domestic details that remain when a person begins to disappear from themselves.
The opening verse is striking in its humility. Rather than grand metaphors, Maia chooses everyday objects: a coat left on a seat, a mismatched sock, a half-finished bottle of water. These are not symbols of drama. They are symbols of presence. Or rather, the ghost of presence. By identifying herself with these overlooked items, the narrator frames love as something persistent but unseen. She becomes residue. She becomes evidence. She becomes what remains when recognition fades.
The genius of the lyricism lies in its restraint. There is no overt accusation, no explosive confrontation. Instead, the recurring line about not being seen standing by someone’s side lands like a quiet confession. The emotional center of the song is not anger but endurance. “I keep holding on” becomes less a declaration and more a survival instinct. It suggests a one-sided tether, stretched thin but unbroken.
The second verse deepens the emotional terrain with images of tea gone cold, discarded lists, a spoon stained by a forgotten cup, pills left untouched. These are intimate domestic still lifes, and they speak volumes about neglect, not in a moral sense but in a cognitive one. The unpicked pills sit as a subtle but powerful reference to the struggle of mental illness and the resistance or inability to accept help. The objects accumulate like unsent letters, each one a quiet testament to love that cannot quite land.
Musically, the band mirrors this emotional push and pull with remarkable sensitivity. The verses float in a dreamy, almost suspended state. Guitars shimmer with a gauzy sheen, recalling shoegaze atmospherics, while the rhythm section maintains a steady, heartbeat-like pulse. Maia’s voice in these moments is eloquent and restrained, hovering just above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb something fragile. Then the chorus surges.
The instrumentation swells into something far more abrasive, guitars thickening into textured walls of sound. The drums hit with greater insistence, and the bass anchors the chaos with a grounding force. Maia’s vocals pivot from ethereal to euphoric, expanding into a cry that feels both desperate and defiant. This dynamic shift is crucial. It embodies the emotional oscillation of loving someone through mental illness. One moment you are speaking gently into the dark. The next, you are shouting into it, hoping for an echo.
What makes “Long Gone” particularly affecting is that it resists tidy resolution. The repeated refrain about holding on despite the other person being long gone does not promise recovery or reconciliation. It acknowledges a painful truth: sometimes the person you love is physically present but psychologically distant. The grief in that realization is complex. It is a mourning without a funeral, a goodbye without departure.
Yet the song is not without hope. The very act of holding on, of continuing to stand by someone who no longer sees you, becomes an act of radical devotion. There is a quiet heroism embedded in the narrative voice. She does not demand to be remembered. She simply remains.
As a band that plays live every month, Maia and the Squires are already honing a reputation for translating their studio atmosphere into something visceral on stage. One can easily imagine “Long Gone” becoming a centerpiece of their performances, the audience swaying in the hush of the verses before being swept into the cathartic release of the chorus. In a live setting, the song’s dynamic architecture would likely feel even more immersive, the dreamy abrasion wrapping around listeners like a storm cloud lit from within.
In the broader context of alternative rock, “Long Gone” feels both nostalgic and urgent. It carries the DNA of 90s melancholy while speaking directly to contemporary conversations about mental health and caregiving. It understands that love is not always cinematic in the traditional sense. Sometimes it is a cold cup of tea. Sometimes it is a forgotten list. Sometimes it is staying when it would be easier to retreat.
With “Long Gone”, Maia and the Squires have crafted more than a single. They have offered a study in invisible devotion, a portrait of what it means to love someone through fragmentation. It is a song that lingers like the objects it describes, quietly waiting to be noticed. And once you do notice it, it is impossible to unhear.
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