You see, she had big plans for Austin. Not only did she manage to snag a spot in the Texas Bluegrass Association’s summer jamboree, but she wanted me to help her make a demo tape.
“And just what are you going to do with this demo tape?” I asked.
“What do you think?” She just grinned at me. “Pass it around.”
I looked at her long and hard then and checked myself as well. I wanted to tell herSlow down, now, just like I used to when she was first learning her instrument. A dozen thoughts flashed through my head:What are we really doing? Is it a good idea to pass out demo tapes? Could someone take advantage of this wide-eyed kid in Austin?At best, I figured people might take them and forget about them in their glove compartments or junk drawers—amateur demos are a dime a dozen in Austin.
At worst, some bad actor could take her eagerness and naivete and use it to scam her.
“Now let’s think this through,” I said to her. “Have you talked to your parents about doing this?”
“Sure,” she said. “But not Mari, not yet—I’m worried she’ll think it means I’m going to move away. So don’t mention it around her.”
Oh, that little sneak. It was a long time before I realized it was the other way around.
No, Ryan hadnottold her parents. But Mari was always near when they came by the shop, so I was none the wiser.
We recorded a nice tape—well, I should say CD, there I’m dating myself—together. It was four of Ryan’s best songs, all of which ended up appearing on her first album. We began with “June Bug,” always fun, and the one that showed off her mezzo range and vocal control the best as she’s flipping up into her breathy register on the chorus. Then “Providence,” of course, for a slower burn, then “Salem Swing,” certainly her edgiest to date at that time. I had to hazard a guess it was about those mean girls in her class.You like to step on my toes / You like to curse my things. / Luckily I’m a dancer / I’ll teach you the Salem Swing—those lines always got me. Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ryan’s wrath, no sir. Not that I could ever imagine her angry.
We ended on “Let Me Know,” that sweet little upbeat song. I’d thought it might be a nod to whatever producer might be listening:I’m still in your corner / I’ll see you at the show. / If you’d care to walk me home / Then won’t you let me know?
I was prepared to help her with the rejection when she got back to Hamilton.
Well, shows you how much I know.
Mari
I played my part well. There were even a few moments I hammed it up in front of Frank: Ibet you’llhateAustin, Ryan. It’s so hot there. You’d never move to Austin without me, right? This is just another festival?
I could always tell by the look on his face that he’d bought her story. Back then, I didn’t really understand Ryan’s reasoning; her parents werehappy to take her to the festivals. I thought they’d be fine with the idea of the demo CDs.
There had been a recent weird incident at a festival in Pennsylvania where an older man had come up to Ryan after the show. I wasn’t there to see it. Barb and John were talking to the stage manager, and the man sidled up when their backs were turned and said something like, “I’ve been catching you at these jams ever since Salem Days, and they just don’t make pretty young ladies like you anymore. You ever think about making a website for yourself? Posting your shows?”
Poor Ryan was trying to be nice. And honestly, it didn’t sound like a bad idea just as Myspace was starting to become a thing—but it’s easy to look back now and know what his intentions were. She said she’d think about it, and then he started pushing her to give him her number so she could text him the shows. Ryan said she didn’t have a cell phone, he said he’d buy her one ... so on and so on. He didn’t shove off until John came over and told him to get lost.
I think that freaked her parents out a little. The Austin festival sixteen hundred miles away probably sounded pretty good just then.
When Ryan told me about the incident, I asked her, “Were you scared? I mean, it’s true. You’re up onstage for all these people to see, and anyone can buy a ticket to a festival.”
She didn’t look at me. But she shrugged and said, “Cost of doing business.”
And I said, “You sound like Frank.”
“That’s because it’s his phrase.”
I’d laughed. But the night Ryan disappeared, I just ... I thought about that man. I know it sounds dramatic to call him her first stalker, but I stand by it.
That was so many years ago, and I don’t think someSouthieschlub like that would’ve had what it took to kidnap a pop star. But you never know what people are capable of.
Anyway, all that is to say—I know now why the Holdings might not have wanted Ryan to be going around Austin, Texas, handingout her music and information to everyone she met. The CDs did have John’s number on them, but the stickers said: “Ryan Holding, Hamilton, MA Bluegrass | 978-555-8853.” There was also a photo of Ryan taped to the back of each, a Polaroid of her and her banjo she’d had me take in front of the old oak in her front yard and then copied at the library. A real sicko could’ve tracked her down if he wanted to.
But at age fourteen, as dumb kids from a town of less than eight thousand people, I didn’t think aboutanyof that. Listen, I trusted Ryan with my life. She was my best friend and the most interesting person I knew. So when she told me we were getting on a bus to tool around downtown Austin while John and Barb recovered from the flight in the hotel hot tub, I said, “Where’s the stop?”
She’d packed dozens of the CDs in her little denim backpack and led me down Twelfth Street. Leave it to Ryan to understand the Austin bus lines. I guess she always had an eye for details like that.
We wouldn’t be able to hit all the studios, but she managed to get us near the capitol, and we walked to a cluster of them on Fifth Street from there. Republic Square, Studio 22, Tough Grit—I mean, the girl had done her research. And in every single lobby, she walked right up to the front desk and said, “Hi there! I’m Ryan Holding from Hamilton, Massachusetts, and I’m putting my own spin on bluegrass. Would you please deliver this to Mr.X,Y,Z?”—she’d even managed to learn the executives’ names—and then she’d pop one of the CDs on the desk.
“How many do you think you’ll hear back from?” I asked her after the third or fourth stop.
