Bnny Take an Unabashed Look at Partnership and Loss on One Million Love Songs
The Chicago-based band leads with their hearts on their sedated sophomore album, as Jessica Viscius uses spacious arrangements to honor the lasting effects of game-changing relationships without losing herself completely.

In a world of right-swipe romance and TikTok tarot card readers convincing you the person you’re pining over will totally reach out as long as you smash that like button, true love seems like a taboo. It’s almost embarrassing to admit you’re “down bad” when the internet is begging you to be a no-strings-attached baddie. It feels like love, just like everything else, comes down to convenience. If it works out, great, if not, download an app and move on to the next. However, on Bnny’s sophomore album, One Million Love Songs, band leader Jessica Viscius explores how nuanced, gorgeous and life-affirming love can be if we truly open ourselves up to it.
Viscius doesn’t pretend to act like this level of sincerity is easy; in fact, the most striking aspect of the album is how she reconciles with loss yet remains fascinated by the way this crazy intense feeling shapes our lives. The follow-up to 2021’s Everything—written following the death of her partner and fellow Chicago musician, Trey Gruber—finds her touching on how certain loves never leave you. Something is devastating yet comforting in her lullaby delivery; on 11 tracks she strikes the balance between keeping her past relationships close while allowing herself the space to grow. The opener, “Missing,” encapsulates the flustering fluctuation that comes with moving on—in the first verse she proclaims “nothing’s missing” but finds herself conceding in the final lines, through her quiet admission that “When I’m with you / I almost forget / That he’s missing.”
Still, there are moments where Bnny presents the sugary-sweet, in-over-your-head sort of infatuation that reminds us why we’re willing to put so much on the line to chase that high in the first place. There’s a huge risk associated with allowing ourselves to become so vulnerable, so attached, so changed by someone—yet we continue to do it. On the subdued yet tender “Nothing Lasts,” the muffled guitars distill the total disbelief of waking up to the person you love and realizing that they really exist, that you have the privilege of sharing not only this moment but so many more with them. The sparse instrumentation seems to be an early morning fever dream as Viscius croons, “Wake up baby / I’m ready for my kiss / Wake up baby / I can’t believe I love you like this.” There is a second where reality is suspended, where everything seems to glow, and even though she’s aware this won’t last, that’s not what matters. Bnny isn’t here to cling, but rather they’re here to take things as they come and appreciate the temporary and transient beauty that makes this kind of intimacy so enamoring.