I had a mind to get her more enmeshed with the Austin music scene, but while we were working on the first album, the separation was intentional. Don’t go to too many shows, I told her. Don’t worryabout getting to know the community just yet. Focus on your stuff first. There will be time for the rest.
And I can’t take full credit, but I think it lent her an incredibly unique sound. There are pared-back nods to New England alongside the tracks with a little more twang—a smash of Texas spice. Ryan was keen on adding more mandolin and whistle to the former, and some electric guitar to the latter.
I mean, what a cool fucking fusion. I couldn’t have asked for a better album.
The only question was whether listeners would agree with me.
We chose “Providence” and “Shoes on the Dash” to push as her first singles, the same two that bookended her album. They were just great songs. A little longing and melancholy in the first, and a feel-good summer jam in the second.
What I really wanted was to build up enough momentum to hit a glide. I’ve never been great at analogies, but—you know when you’re cutting paper with scissors, cutting cutting cutting, and then something catches andkshhhh—the scissors are gliding effortlessly? We hadn’t hit our stride yet, and I wanted Ryan to start feeling the benefits of all the work we were putting in.
I wanted to start feeling them too. I wanted to know that our investment would pay off.
Jasmine
Skip and I finally got Ryan to release her grip on the tracks in mid-May 2005. That girl was something else—some songs she could whip off like nothing. But others—“Eastside Blues” and “Highway 71”—she just wanted to keep marinating and marinating on until she got it right.
Skip pushed the team to mix and master the album as quickly as possible without sacrificing quality. He wouldn’t admit this at the time, but I knew what he was doing. It wasn’t hard to guess that he wantedRyan Holdingto go out into the world as close to July first as humanly possible so we could maximize the eligibility period for the 2006 Country Music Awards.
Saying that out loud would’ve been jinxing it. I mean, it was crazy—Ryan was just a little girl, we’d acquired her so recently, and Madcap was still so nascent itself.
But she brought an energy to all of us that made us believe, in our incredible hubris, that it just might be possible. Ryan learned everyone’s names, from Bonnie, our receptionist, to Guy, our bookings manager, to Evan, our lowly runner, and she always said hi if she saw them, even if it was a quick wave from behind the sound booth. It would be easy for the more cynical among us to dismiss that as naivete, but in an industry full of assholes ... she was a breath of fresh air.
A whole bunch of the staff gathered in the conference room to listen to the final playthrough—more than Skip would usually have allowed.
Ryan sat very still and kept her arms crossed, elbows on the table, eyes down.
No one said anything the whole time except for a few looks and nods to each other from across the room. I liked it, and I could tell that Skip was satisfied from the way his jaw kept still—whenever he was stressed or irritated, he’d work it like he was chewing his nicotine gum, even if he didn’t have a piece just then—but it was really important that Ryan liked it too. That’s a major milestone for an artist. You have to be proud of what you’re putting out or else it’s going to be that much harder to sell it and perform it.
When the last few bars of “Shoes on the Dash” ended, everyone stayed quiet. I mean, you could hear a pin drop in that whole room. Everyone was holding their breath.
Ryan kept her eyes down, and Skip looked at her, hands folded on the table, from beneath his brows.
Then she looked up at him in the same fashion, raised her eyebrows, and grinned.
She nodded, and I swear the room broke out into cheers.
There’s no such thing as a perfect album. Of course there are always going to be notes you’d like to change, words you wish you’d arranged differently—and that’s okay, that’s the beauty that comes with live performance, when youcanmake those adjustments and experiences, keeping the music dynamic and alive.
ButRyan Holdingwas damn close to a perfect debut. And it was the most fun final playthrough I’ve had the pleasure of attending.
Justin
I remember the first time I heard Ryan’s voice on the radio. It was so, so weird—I’d had my license for a week and was driving my dad’s truck to Ipswich with the stereo blasting. I always shut it off when I got close to our house, but out of earshot of my parents, I cranked that sucker.
I was just pulling into town when “Providence” came on. I had to slam on my brakes because I nearly sailed through a three-way intersection.
There was Ryan’s voice, just how I remembered it.
And she was singing about me.
It’s just you and me, William.
I had to buy her album. I was sort of embarrassed by it, so, you know, I didn’t tell anyone. But I listened to the whole thing again and again. And it was the first time I began to feel ... I don’t know. This is going to get me slandered, but it’s how I feel. It was kind of an ownership, you know? I mean, those lyrics were aboutme. My relationship with her had given her the material for all these songs.When I need reassurance, you’re the only one / I’ll be waiting for you on Highway 71.That was me. We’d talked about how, if I ever visited her in Austinsomeday, I’d fly into Austin-Bergstrom International Airport—which is on Highway 71.
I’m not crazy.
People really, really crucify me for this. But they don’t know what it feels like to have songs written about you—recorded, professionally mixed, published songs—that someone else is making money off of.
