Chapter 7 Kylie #2
Sure, everyone has their own journey, whatever, but I’ve never seen anyone shoot to fame as fast as she did.
Ryan worked hard, but time and again, she never faced rejection.
Open doors at every turn. You want to learn the banjo?
Boom, here’s an instrument and lessons every week.
You want to travel around the country playing festivals?
Boom, we can afford that. Move to Texas for a record contract?
Boom, no problem, sweetie, we’ll just uproot our entire lives so you can follow your dreams.
I worked at the bodega down the street to buy my first Casio keyboard.
My parents thought music was not only a phase but a terrible career path.
I was scraping pennies together. I played late-night bar shows forever and got total radio silence back from my demo tapes before I clawed my way into the industry.
You’re talking to Victor!a for this project, right?
I know for a fact that she went home to Ohio after two years of trying to make it in LA.
Just went home and gave up and got a job at Kohl’s before she got a call back from her agent.
Artists like Victor!a and me, we earned our spot here.
But then here comes Ryan Holding, all sweet and perfect, beloved by all. Okay. And I did my best to be open minded, but you know what? I think she thinks she’s better than us.
In fact, I know she does, wherever she is.
Even now. The first time I met her at a party, she was gushing all over me, Oh wow, it’s so cool to meet you, I can’t believe I’m actually talking to Helladonna!
And I was like, okay, we’re laying it on a little thick. But whatever, she was young and eager.
And then later that night, I’m walking back from the bathroom and what do I overhear?
Ryan’s talking to her friend Mary or Martha or whoever and thinks no one’s listening, and she’s like, “Oh, Helladonna? No, I haven’t heard any of her albums, you know I don’t listen to pop.
But you’ve gotta pretend to be a fan of everyone around here if you know what’s good for you. ”
Yeah. The two of them laughed their heads off like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. And just a few years later she’s calling herself a pop star?
You’ll excuse me if I’m underwhelmed.
She always had that big goofy grin on her face, acting all polite and interested at parties—until she’d drop it and roll her eyes when she thought no one was watching, usually after talking to those model girls.
Like, that’s venomous. I’m not saying I could stand those catty bitches any more than she could; they’d put me down too.
Plenty. Said my themed shows and costumes were tacky and I looked like a clown in all my stage makeup.
Which, by the way—you know I did all that first, right?
I was here creating elaborate productions in sold-out stadiums before anyone knew Ryan Holding’s name.
My Candy Wonderland tour grossed $52 million in 2012, way before Ryan started up on her derivative vaudeville bullshit.
I just think it’s . . . interesting how some of our ideas have overlapped.
Anyways. Just don’t be fake, you know? Don’t act like you think someone is the shit and then turn around and mock me to your little hick friend from Massachusetts.
I got the sense she felt she wasn’t “like other girls.” We know the ones, these days—they call them pick-me girls. I mean, Ryan’s whole second album had all these songs about being different, being the one the guy was supposed to be with instead of his mean-ass girlfriend, right?
Not a girl’s girl. Not in that era.
With the party stuff, though—you don’t want to imbibe?
No pressure. Everyone can do what makes them comfortable.
But Ryan was like this, this almost comical Southern belle, Oh my me, I couldn’t have a seltzer!
I’m not of age! Give me a break. We’re all drinking, we’re being shitty youths, you’re not special because you—I kid you not, she actually fucking did this once—you brought a crossword to a house party and sat down on the couch while everyone did shots around you.
I mean, just don’t come if you don’t want to be there?
I don’t know, man. I’m sorry that whatever happened to her happened to her. My grandma always said not to speak ill of the dead, and . . . I mean, do we know for sure she’s still earthside? Did they ever arrest that McCarthy guy?
They’ll slander me for that, but it’s good for my engagement. Keep it coming, Ryde-or-Dies.
She wasn’t my cup of tea.
Nick Hoffmann, songwriter and guitarist of Socket Plug
I did first meet Ryan at a party. It was in Vegas, a particularly rowdy one. I was playing a show there when she was touring for her first album, and a buddy of mine was dating someone in Kylie Cameron’s crowd, so I tagged along.
It was in a suite that someone rented out at the top of the MGM Grand, overlooking the city. We took the elevator up, and you could hear the music pumping before the door even opened.
A lot of big names were at that party—Desiree LaBelle, Rodrick Flores, Helladonna. I’d heard of Ryan but hadn’t given her much thought. I mean, I’m a rock guitarist. I don’t know if I’d heard any bluegrass in my life up to that point.
But I remember that I got there and got my beer—I was trying to take it easy, I had a rehearsal the next day, and amps are hell on a hangover—and walked around to find this really pretty girl curled on the sofa talking to one of the models.
She had a magazine in one hand and a glass of wine in the other and looked for all the world like she was spending an evening at home. Like she wasn’t even part of the party.
I recognized her hair first. She was wearing this drapey metallic shirt with tight black pants, and I made the connection from a photo I’d seen in one of the tabloids.
I waited until the model went for a refill before making my way over to Ryan and saying, “Any good stories in there?” I don’t think I’d ever seen someone read a magazine at a party.
She looked up at me and shrugged, and said, “It’s just a tourist thing, so no. Sounds like there are some good museums around town, though.”
Ryan flipped the cover closed to show me the title: Las Vegas Life. It had this couple who was dressed to the hilt, reacting with shocked, gleeful faces at the results of a craps table.
“This could be us,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
I laughed. “Yeah? You like craps?”
“No.” She laughed too. “I’ve never gambled in my life. I’m completely out of place here.”
It seemed like a true statement on more than one level. But . . . it was kind of cute. “I mean, if there’s anywhere you should gamble, it’s here,” I said.
“I know, I know.” She made a face. “My band has already made the rounds at the casinos.”
“Your band—you’re Ryan Holding, right? I’m Nick Hoffmann of Socket Plug.” I realized I still hadn’t introduced myself, and I sort of felt like an ass. I didn’t want her to think I expected her to know everyone on sight.
But she smirked and said, “I know. You guys just headlined Coachella, didn’t you? That’s pretty epic.”
I was impressed and, again, felt kind of guilty that I didn’t know anything about her genre. I said that we did, and asked, “You keep up with a lot of rock news over in bluegrass world?”
“I don’t live under a rock,” she said. “Plus, I think Kylie’s friend Savannah has a huge crush on you; she goes on about Socket Plug all the time. I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“Oh, I see,” I told her, acting like I was super interested in the news. “Tell me more about this Savannah girl.”
Ryan leaned back on the sofa and clasped her hands together over her knee like she was giving an interview. “Well, she’s older than me. She models for Versace. She can do that thing where she ties a cherry stem with her tongue.”
I smirked. “But I bet she doesn’t know where all the best museums in Vegas are.”
Ryan shook her head. “I wouldn’t count on it. And she’s missing out—there’s one that’s completely devoted to bobbleheads.”
“No way.” I grinned. “Like baseball-player bobbleheads?”
“Baseball players, politicians, Mickey Mouse . . . you name it.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said.
“Believe it,” she said. “You want me to point it out to you?”
She stood with her glass of wine, and I realized she meant I should come with her.
It was the most interesting conversation I’d had at a party in a while—most parties in those days didn’t involve conversation at all—so I was happy to follow.
Instead of leading me out to the balcony like I thought she would, we wove through the crowd and out of the suite entirely.
I thought I understood then—I thought she was leading me back to her room, and that did make me feel both thrilled and nervous. Celebrity that I am, I’ve always been more awkward than my bandmates about that side of the rock star lifestyle.
But no, Ryan surprised me again. She pushed through a door that almost certainly should have been locked and led me to the roof of the building, complete with an empty bar and deserted patio. We were partying on a Monday night, did I mention? Weekends and weekdays don’t exist in jobs like ours.
It was . . . breathtaking. Big carpet of neon spreading out before us, and then this blank, dark sea beyond that where the desert stretched into nothingness.
It gave me this crazy feeling in my chest. Ryan went right up to the edge and looked out over the railing with the wind whipping all her hair around her face.
She set her wine down and pointed north. “You see the Eiffel Tower over there?” she said. I did. “Okay, follow the road beyond that and look at that tiny red light next to the tall building there, with all the lights off. See that?”
“I think I do,” I said. I didn’t.
“That’s the bobblehead museum.”
I squinted. “No way you can tell from here!”
She said, “Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”