“Not always. I forget sometimes, even when I’m playing for Frank.”
I studied her for a moment and realized she was genuinely scared. From standing up to that clique to her ukulele performance at school to her weird relationship with Justin, I hadn’t seen her scared before.Thisis what she was afraid of failing at.
“Then just play for Frank. He’ll be there,” I said. “And play for me.”
She closed her eyes and took a big, long breath.
“I think I can do that,” she said.
Ryan’s mom had to just about force-feed her in the morning.
“I am not letting you get on a stage in ninety-degree weather without having at least a little bit of protein,” I remember Barb saying as she heaped the scrambled eggs from the hotel breakfast onto Ryan’s plate. They were horrible eggs, dry and kind of gritty. Ryan was looking green as she tried to choke down a few forkfuls.
Yes, it was forecasted to be a high of ninety-two that day. When we stepped out of the air-conditioned hotel to load Ryan’s banjo into the car, I could tell that for the first time she might have been genuinelydoubting the decisions that had gotten her to this point. Her eyes were flat and staring straight ahead, her mouth in a thin line.
I only saw that look a few more times over the course of Ryan’s career. But that day, it was there.
Frank
Ryan didn’t initially seem nervous when she and her crew came walking across the grass, but when I asked her how she was holding up, she just nodded, kind of looking through me. I thought maybe it was dawning on her that all these people here were going to be staring at her and watching her every move. River Rocks wasn’t a huge festival by any means, but a couple thousand people was far more than the handful she’d performed in front of before.
Funny, isn’t it? Ryan’s played for a hundred million since then. But that day in Providence, the bluegrass crowd in the park must have felt like a stadium.
“Do they have any water backstage?” Ryan asked, sounding numb.
“Water, Gatorade, of course,” I said. “Let’s get you set up.”
We got her tuned up while another young man performed his set, and I sat with her backstage while her parents and Mari went to watch.
“You feeling okay?” I asked. Her face was almost totally drained of color. I was feeling a bit nervous myself by this point. What if she had a rough experience and never wanted to play again? That would be okay, but I’d had such high hopes for her first bluegrass jam. I wanted it to be fun for her. I told her, “It’s a tough day to perform. If you’re not feeling up to it, I want you to know—that’s completely okay.”
She sort of snapped out of her stupor and looked me right in the eyes then. “I’m up for it,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Then she walked onstage, and I said a little prayer under my breath.
Mari
Ryan had picked her outfit very carefully, but I don’t think any of us counted on the heat. She’d worn a short-sleeve cotton dress with blue-and-white flowers all over, and a denim vest, which she handed to me before she went backstage. I’d set it across my lap while we sat in the grass, and it felt like a lead blanket.
There was a guy older than us, maybe in his twenties, performing before Ryan went on, and he wasgood. His fingers were flying on the strings, he was whooping and hollering, stomping his feet on the stage and everything. The crowd was getting into it despite the heat too. I was a little bit dazzled by him, I’ll admit it, but it also gave me this sinking feeling, ofOh shit. Ryan has to follow this.
And his set ended, and the crowd applauded and quieted.
Everyone waited, shifting on the lawn.
Suddenly this music started playing, and Ryan came onstage while strumming her first song, reaching the mic and pausing the strings just as her voice rang out sweet and clear across the park, singing about that lonesome road.
She drew it out a bit, letting the final note linger with her natural vibrato and giving a littlewhoopat the end. She called out loud and clear, “Well, hey there, River Rocks!”
Ryan restarted the first three notes of the song and came right back down on beat, stomping her leather-sandaled foot on the stage. A genuine, full-hearted cheer went up from the crowd, and they began clapping along with her.
There she was, looking completely at ease with her hair all around her shoulders, heavy and curly and thick in the humidity. I’d told her I could help her pin it up, but no, it was part of her look.
She was right to keep it that way. That hair became her signature.
Frank
I was real proud of her. So proud.
