Chapter 7 Kylie
Seven
Kylie
We had the rager of the century after those CMA Awards. It was like Ryan had never been to a real party before! Like, dear lord. Get outside, girl.
All my people were hesitant about a quote-unquote “country” party, but I was like, hell, let’s lean into it.
Themed drinks. Skimpy denim shorts and flannel.
Tumbleweed tequila sunrises—don’t ask me, they put Frosted Mini-Wheats in them or something—and pigs in a blanket.
Rodrick, the guy I was dating at the time, brought a tin of edibles and codeine and called it cowboy candy.
A bunch of my LA friends flew out for the CMAs, and we rented a big house in Nashville.
Professional DJ, catered Smokey’s Bar-B-Que, the works.
Some of them stayed behind to get a watch party going while the rest of us were at the Gaylord, and when we all got back with Ryan and her friend in tow, it was cranked to a hundred.
I got her a red Solo cup and a vodka cran immediately.
But when I handed it to her, she said, “No, thanks, that’s okay.”
I’d—listen, I’m not proud of it now, but—I laughed at her. I said, “What? You don’t want it?”
“No,” Ryan said. “I’d take some lemonade, if you have it.”
I laughed again and her friend gave me a dirty look. She didn’t want anything, either, I guess. I asked them why the hell they didn’t.
“I’m seventeen,” Ryan said, smiling.
“Ryan,” I snapped at her. I pulled my friend Desiree over. “Do you know who this is? This is Desiree LaBelle. She does commercials for American Family Insurance.”
“That’s really cool,” Ryan said. “And?”
I’d rolled my eyes. “And, she’s literally zonked on cough syrup right now. Aren’t you, Desee?”
“Hmm?” Desiree said. She had that look in her eye.
“Yeah,” I said. “So you can keep your clean-girl image and still have fun. Everyone does it. I’m here to tell you: Age stops being a number when you literally have a career.”
“Good to know,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I can’t be 100 percent sure, but I don’t think she touched any food or drink for the rest of that night.
Skip
I wouldn’t have faulted Ryan for doing as much celebrating as she wanted after that CMA win, as long as she was being safe.
John and Barb were starting to take a very .
. . well, let’s just say it was a hands-off approach by the time Ryan reached seventeen.
I get it. There’s no parenting book out there that’ll tell you how to raise your teenage daughter who’s bringing in more income than the two of you combined.
Barb was more like her accountant by then, managing all the money that was coming in and out and working with a financial adviser to invest it.
John . . . I think John started to check out.
He was overwhelmed, if I had to guess. It’s not easy seeing your little girl become the center of—well, all the attention, good and bad.
We had a few long talks, the three of us, about what it means to be a public figure.
They did share with me about the man who’d followed her from festival to festival, yes.
And as a rule, we provide security details to all our artists and make sure there are quite a few layers of separation before anyone can contact them directly.
But it’s just an occupational hazard, I stressed to them. The bigger your audience, the greater the likelihood you’ll get a wacko here or there. Barb seemed to accept it, but I know it was hard for John.
Anyway. Ryan did take some time off, which I was glad to see. Spent some time with Mari and started developing a circle of peers on her level, which was even better. I asked her how things went the day after one of their parties.
“Awful,” she said. “They all suck.”
I had to laugh. “Aren’t there thirty-something of you running around with Kylie Cameron? Every single one of them sucks?”
“Every single one.”
“Listen,” I said. “I’m not saying you have to spend any more time with them than you want to. But it might help to think of them as coworkers if you can’t think of them as friends. It’s good to have connections.”
Connections were how Andre and I built our business. It was what Madcap ran on—that and Ryan, slowly but surely.
“Less talk, more producing,” she said. “Did you want me to do another album, or was the first one enough?”
I laughed again. “If either of us ever want to retire, I think we’ll have to write a few more songs,” I said.
“That’s what I thought.”
In many ways, the sophomore album is even more important than the debut. Now you’ve got eyes on you. Now you’ve got anticipation. You’ve managed to get their attention with something shiny, and they’re wondering if you’re capable of doing it again.
If you’re not, you’re done.
Jasmine
If Ryan was a perfectionist while writing Ryan Holding, she was obsessive about Firebird. I talked to Skip a million times—don’t ever say that thing to her, don’t even mention the word shiny. No metaphors. You’re only going to get in her head.
I think Ryan felt the pressure instinctively, though.
It’s tough going it alone. At that point, we still kind of had a revolving-door band backing her; I know she was wanting better camaraderie with her musicians that just wasn’t there yet.
One of Skip’s goals, which was somewhat contingent on the success of album two, was to put together a good, strong backing band with long-term contracts.
Maybe even get some dancers, because Ryan was showing a theater kid’s affinity for making up her own moves on the spot and working the crowd.
We had to solidify our foundation before having those conversations. But I told her not to think about any of that—your job isn’t to focus on anything but your music.
There was one day in the studio when Ryan was almost doubled over with the effort of lyric writing for “Didn’t You Realize.
” She was literally hunched over her banjo.
She was stuck on the chorus and didn’t like any of the rhymes I suggested for realize.
I noticed that she had a habit of tugging at her earlobes when she was stressed, and she was yanking on her left one pretty hard just then.
So I said, “Hey, kiddo, let’s take a walk. ”
She stared at me, wide-eyed. “We’re not done.”
“We’re not getting anywhere,” I said. “So come on. Fresh air always helps.”
We walked all the way to Jim-Jim’s Water-Ice on Sixth—god, I still miss that place—and got Italian ice together. Melon ball for me and strawberry kiwi for her. And I said, “I know you’re not having writer’s block. I saw you with your notebook all throughout the Southwest Sands tour. So what is it?”
Ryan didn’t answer for a little bit. Then she said, “I’ve got a lot of material, yeah. But it all sounds . . . different.”
“Different how?”
“It’s not like my first album,” she said. “And my first album was what got me here—I know I don’t have to do the same exact thing again, but that’s what everyone liked the first time.”
“That’s true,” I said. “But they also liked you. They liked what you did with the music that was authentic to you. And this album will also be authentic to you.”
She took a deep breath and sounded exasperated. “A lot of what I wrote is about being on tour. About meeting new people and going to parties.”
“So? Write what you know; it’s good advice for a reason.”
“Going on tour is not very bluegrass.” She took a big scoop of her water ice, and I realized we’d gotten to the crux of the problem. “Doc Watson never wrote about being offered pills by someone who models sunglasses for a living.”
I stopped short and said, “You didn’t take any, did you?”
“Pills? No.”
I’m twenty-four years sober this year, I’m damn proud to say. And I owe that to Skip and the environment at Madcap, where having a seventeen-year-old as a coworker really contributed to that success.
“Those things will mess you up,” I told Ryan. “I’m fucking serious, it’s not worth it. Okay?”
I wanted to drive my point home. She looked embarrassed and said, “Yeah, I know. Okay.”
“Okay, good,” I said. “So I can pretend I didn’t hear that if your mother ever asks.”
“She won’t.” I remember Ryan stirring her ice very aggressively.
“But anyway, you’re wrong,” I said. “Haven’t you heard ‘The Junkie’s Prayer’?
‘Mama Tried’? There’s such a thing as dark country.
Not that that’s what you’re writing, but you know—your bluegrass can be whatever you want it to be.
A traditional genre plus mixed with your own experiences and modern ideas—that’s what makes it original. ”
She’d recovered a bit from my scare-you-straight. “That’s true,” she said.
“And don’t tell Skip I said this,” I went on. “But say you put your heart and soul into this album and it flops. So what? If people don’t want to hear what you have to say, do you want their money anyway?”
Ryan laughed. “I mean, yes.”
“Sellout.” And I elbowed her.
But she whipped off two songs—“Whiskey and Wine” and “Candy Girl”—when we got back to the studio.
Reddit user u/candygrrrl_1997
I’m sorry but it’s so obvious to me that Kylie’s model friends did something to Ryan.
Ryan took Kylie from them, she got with a lot of their boyfriends, she made a lot of enemies.
I mean, these girls were mega powerful. You don’t think they could have paid someone off to take her out and hush it up? Ur kidding yourself.
#RescueRyan
Helladonna, New York–based pop artist
I dunno, I always steered clear of Ryan Holding. Sure, she’s prolific. She’s worked hard. I’ll be the first to say that her output is insane—like, the girl must be tired. Ryan is a lot, in every sense of the word.
But here’s the thing: She never struggled. Not like the rest of us.