Chapter 13 Mari
Thirteen
Mari
How much of Justin’s story are you actually including? Because he does not get to make this about him. He does not deserve whatever platform you’re already giving him by devoting even an ounce of attention to what he did.
I don’t want to spend too much time on this for multiple reasons—one being that it was a difficult time in my life as well—but Ryan was gutted by Justin’s betrayal. I kept calling her that morning until I got through; I think she was in crisis mode with Skip and Jas for most of the day.
“How bad is it?” I remember asking. “Can you still launch the album if it’s only three songs?”
“We’re pushing back the release date,” she said. And then, “Mari, I can’t talk. I think I need to take some time off to clear my head.”
And I said, “Okay, of course. This is a lot to deal with. Let me know how I can help; I’m here for you.”
But she closed herself off instead.
Skip
I mean, talk about a mess. That idiot Justin had sold the tracks to some skeevy music-sharing site—he probably got a fraction of what he could have if he’d shared it with a proper black-market dealer.
We could’ve released the album on schedule as planned, but the awkward thing was that our whole marketing campaign was based around the tracks being a secret.
I mean, it doesn’t sound very artistic to say, but Ryan was truly starting to have a “brand,” so to speak, and the music videos, graphics, everything, was informed by her call.
We were happy to give her that creative power.
Two of the three established, released singles had music videos; we were wrapping up editing for the third that would drop after the album.
She liked to do things in trilogies, though Diatribe’s videos were more subtly connected than Firebird’s were.
“Count Your Days” was stylized like a ’50s sock hop; Ryan’s love interest takes her to the dance but then leaves with another girl, so she challenges him to a rumble.
A lot of fun cameos in the sock hop—Kylie was there again, Mari, Jas even got in on the fun.
And Justin, unfortunately—I would’ve had Serge cut his frames if we’d had our own crystal ball.
We filmed a scene with Ryan in a greaser look, leather jacket and bright-red lip down below the First and Sixth Street bridges where the Grease car race was filmed. They end up opting for a game of chicken, and he swerves first, but Ryan keeps driving.
Then you have “White Lace,” which seems to be set later on in the ’60s, but Ryan drives up to a fortune teller in a beat-up car that’s the same one from the end of “Count Your Days.” You can just see her leather jacket in the back seat if you’re looking closely too.
The other Easter eggs I can remember were about Firebird; I mean, the car is a 1967 Pontiac Firebird, so it was anachronistic, but that was the point .
. . The fortune teller has all these papers and charts hung up behind her, so there was a lot of opportunity there.
We had the secret messages from the debut album’s packaging up there; we had Polaroids from the tours and ticket stubs and press clippings all connected by red threads.
Some early footage from “Angeline” flashed through the crystal ball when Ryan bent over it, trying to learn if her character would find true love.
Anyway, all that is to say we built the campaign around all this mysterious fortune-teller imagery.
What’s coming? What’s going to happen next?
The graphics all had ornate question marks and a bit of a tarot feel—without going so far as to ruffle feathers of people who still remembered the satanic panic.
So, the mystique was somewhat ruined.
Jasmine
Albums can perform just fine after a leak, and I’m still not convinced we did the right thing by pushing it back. But we could all feel that the momentum had stalled.
In a team crisis-control meeting Skip called, he said that Justin could be subject to a civil lawsuit for what he did. “It’s theft, plain and simple,” he said. “And Ryan, you probably have plenty of evidence on your side.”
Ryan shook her head, looking numb. “He deleted the email he sent himself from my account,” she said. “I don’t know if I can prove he did it.”
“Oh, he’ll crack.” Skip rubbed his hands together—I’d rarely seen him so vindictive, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was relishing the idea of bringing Justin to the breaking point.
“No,” Ryan said, and for a moment everyone was quiet as we looked at her. “Call Anaheim Studios.” I’ll never forget the hard look she had on her face. Usually Ryan is quick to smile, but that day her expression was completely rigid.
Skip asked, “Who’s that?”
And she answered, “They hired Justin to be a location scout. Tell them what he did, and they’ll fire him. That’s more than punishment.”
There was a long silence in the room before Skip said, “Okay, Ryan. I’ll do that.”
I’m not sure what happened after that meeting, but the next thing I knew, Ryan was in Seattle. I don’t know if Barb or anyone went with her, but I do know Mari was blindsided by it. We didn’t hear from Ryan over the weekend, and the following Monday, she said she still needed some time.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t anywhere she could go to escape the press.
In an la minute spot, aired March 2012
Anchor: . . . and in music news, bluegrass star turned pop sensation Ryan Holding became yet another victim of a music leak ahead of the release of her third album, Diatribe, which was set to drop next week.
Can the young star handle this setback with grace?
Our correspondent Stefan Barnes caught up with Ryan on the streets of Seattle, where the “Shoes on the Dash” singer has escaped to clear her head.
[Footage cuts to a handheld camera; Ryan is squinting into the reporter’s light on a dark and rainy street as the camera follows her.]
Stefan: Ryan! Ryan, can you tell our viewers how you feel about the leak?
Ryan: It’s not a good time to talk right now, I’m sorry.
Stefan: What does this mean for Diatribe? Will it still release on time?
Ryan: I don’t know.
Stefan: Is it true that you were dating Justin William Ayers, who leaked the tracks? What did you say to Justin when you learned what he’d done?
[Ryan stops and glares at the correspondent.]
Ryan: How do you even know about that? That’s private, no comment.
Stefan: Ryan, you’ve known Justin since childhood, is that correct? Did you ever think he was capable of something like this?
[Ryan turns to duck into her hotel, and the correspondent reaches out to grab her arm; Ryan whirls around and throws him off.]
Ryan: Shut UP! Can’t you leave me the f— alone?
Anchor: Moms, cover your children’s ears—Ryan Holding isn’t the sweet Americana singer she once was.
Skip
You’d think they’d have some more decorum. I mean come on, Ryan was still a kid. She was upset. I’d given her that tough love, taught her to expect them to put her under a microscope with a career like hers, and she always said “Occupational hazard” when there was a salacious article or crazy fan.
“Occupational hazard,” with that wry smile of hers. I miss that smile.
She took it on the chin. But . . . a person can only take so much. Have you ever heard of a fugue state? It happened to Agatha Christie, dissociative fugue. Sometimes, if a person is under enough pressure or suffers a trauma, they just sort of . . . leave it all behind. Forget who they are.
Old Agatha turned up in a spa miles away calling herself Teresa Neele and truly believing she was someone’s mother from Cape Town.
I’m not saying that’s what happened to Ryan after the leak, and I’m not saying it’s what happened after the VMAs. I tell myself it’s a reasonable theory, and then I remember that it would be impossible for Ryan to get anywhere without being recognized.
But sometimes people just snap, change their appearance, slip into another life as a Walmart cashier in Kansas or some shit. Stranger things have happened.
I’ve tried to find her, Elyse, I have. I’ve used all the resources that are available to me.
Wherever she is, I hope she’s not alone.
Mari
The week or so after the songs leaked was . . . a weird one.
I had no idea Ryan went up north. I still don’t know why she did it. She wasn’t answering my texts or calls, and I started to get really worried, so I called Jas to see if she knew anything.
“I think she went to Seattle,” Jas said. She sounded surprised that I didn’t know where Ryan was, and for some reason, that hurt the most. Like, yes—if anyone in the world knows what’s going on with Ryan right now, it should be me.
I would feel that weird guilt and fear times ten a few years later.
But yeah, Jas said that Ryan had mentioned Seattle. And then I saw that LA Minute clip and found the hotel where she was staying.
So I went.
Even when I got to town, Ryan wouldn’t tell me her room number until I was actually in the lobby.
I was super worried for her, but after spending my money and my weekend to make sure she was still alive, I was starting to get a little pissed off.
My emotions were all over the place by the time I was pounding on her door. I felt wired.
How much do you want to know? I’m not here to give you some bullshit account of a catfight, if that’s what you’re looking for. That’s what the tabloids always wanted.
But yes. We fought.
She opened the door with this sullen look on her face, and I said, “Thank god. What’s going on? You have to talk to me!”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. She didn’t invite me in. “I just need a break from everything. Is that allowed?”
I didn’t like her tone. I could have been more understanding, I know—she was going through something rough—but come on, I’d come to help.
“Of course it’s allowed,” I said. I looked past her shoulder into the room and saw a blue duffel bag I didn’t recognize. “You’re not alone, are you? You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Ryan crossed her arms. “No. I’m not alone. I’m fine.”
She was being cagey again, and that set me off.
Why not let me in? Why not let me help? You can’t just vanish when things get difficult.
She was always bad about that. So I said something that I knew was just a bit over the line: “Yeah, I can tell you’re totally fine by the way you disappeared from LA and screamed at a journalist and didn’t answer my calls. ”
She glared at me. She said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know who I can trust right now.”
That literally made me take a step back.
“That doesn’t include me, right?” I asked.
“That doesn’t include the one person who’s had your back for more than, what—more than eight years, does it?
Who’s gone to all your shows, all your tours and events and stupid-ass parties with girls you say you hate but can’t seem to stop hanging out with? ”
“You seem to benefit from it enough.” Ryan couldn’t look me in the eyes when she said it. I’ll give her that much.
“Ryan!” I just said her name, really sharply. I didn’t know what else to say.
“You were the one who said I should reach out to Justin again,” she muttered.
“That’s not what I said. I never said that.”
“Well, that’s what it felt like.”
I stood rooted to the ground, just staring at her. I felt empty inside. Then I said, “I don’t even know who you are right now.”
And I walked away.