Ryan did a really good job of building this ... intrigue. A young girl breaking into the bluegrass scene, becoming mainstream with a genre that no one on theBillboardHot 100 had thought about in—I don’t know, decades? But her singles started showing up there on herSouthwest Sands tour. What was her deal? Where were all these little bluegrass fans coming from?
And, listen. People can be ... well, just mean. Look at Olivia Rodrigo. Look at Charli XCX. Anytime you start to see someone totally unknown—especiallya young woman—skyrocket upward, people are all like, What’s the catch? Why doesshedeserve it? Tale as old as fucking time.
I’ll admit I hung out with a lot of those people. I’ll admit that Iwasone of those people. You don’t know catty and petty until you’ve clawed your way up in the modeling industry, and I had to earn my stripes somehow. The word around our circle was that Ryan’s whole wide-eyed, girl-next-door thing was nothing more than a schtick. You don’t grow that fast without stepping on some necks, and this all-American persona ofWho, me? I’m just a girl! I’m so excited to be onstage, and I love baking cookies and watching movies with my best friend!drove some of my friends batshit.
Maybe it felt like an insult. We’d learned early on that we had to be tough in our industry, we had to take a lot of abuse. And here she was acting like it was all cupcakes and butterflies and ... she was havingfun. Or seemingly so.
I told myself that I was hate-reading the magazine articles about her, hate-listening to her songs, hate-buying a ticket to her show and getting there early to see if anyone would exchange a june-bug ticket with me. I went alone except for my own security guard. None of my other friends were interested back then.
But there was something else when I finally got to my seat, VIP ticket in hand from some eleven-year-old who’d been gullible enough to trade it for a hundred dollars. I felt my pulse jump when she came onstage playing all those crazy jangling notes and whooping it up, getting the crowd to clap faster and faster and stomp their feet until I could hardly see her fingers flying over her strings. I remember having this image of my grandma, but, like, my grandma at my age, listening to something like this or even playing it herself and feeling ... alive.
It was fun. Plain and simple. I was enjoying myself.
I still expected something exclusive when I headed to the VIP lounge after the show; I don’t know what. Carved ice, sushi, champagne—even though she had just turned sixteen and I would only be nineteen the next month. So when I had my ticket scanned by this massive dude in all black, I was, well ... surprised by what I saw.
There was no huge line to see her. There was no security or roped-off area. Ryan was right there and had changed into a flannel T-shirt, and she was playingGuitar Heroon a projector screen with a couple of fans competing with her and the rest cheering her on. I just stood there and stared.
It was like no other VIP lounge I’d ever been to. There was a big archway decorated with fake bluebonnets and a wooden sign where you could take pictures, yes, but there were also craft-services tables full of pizza rolls, nachos, brownies, sodas. It wasn’t until I grabbed a plate that I realized how hungry I was, and I was there stuffing pizza rolls in my mouth when Ryan came over to grab a 7UP.
“Hi!” I said with my mouth full. “Such a great show! I’m Kylie Cameron.”
She smiled. “Hey, thanks so much for coming, Kylie! I’m so glad you liked it, that means a lot.”
I could tell she didn’t recognize my name. I mean, that’s fine, I wasn’tmajormajor back then, but it did take me down a peg. I mean, I was in alotof magazines. And I had a second where I felt all that judgment swell up again at her fake-looking smile.
“Yeah, I model with Marco Barbieri, so I was able to get tickets through them,” I said. “I was surprised at how hard it was to get backstage; usually that’s pretty easy for me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but ... it wasn’t this.”
I widened my eyes a little and raised my eyebrows. I was trying to be mean.
But Ryan’s own eyes got big and she gushed, “Oh wow, Marco Barbieri? That’s amazing! Wait—I totally recognize you! I think I’ve seen your picture at Kohl’s?”
I mean, no. I never modeled for Kohl’s. But between looking at her quizzically and saying, “Um, yeah, I guess,” and her going on about how cool it was that I came, I realized—oh, you’re just like this. You’re just genuinely nice and normal, and not at all used to fame.
So I knew I had to take her under my wing.
Jasmine
I don’t mean this to sound patronizing; Ryan was an extremely talented young woman at the time and didn’t need my approval. Or anyone’s, for that matter—she was coming into her own. But listen, I’ve never had kids, and I felt very protective of her, and ... I don’t know. I was just very proud of her, especially at the start. Like she was my daughter or niece or something.
She didn’t have a lot of experience with fame, no. But that gave her the freedom to sort of do whatever the hell she felt like doing without being wrapped up in what the “right” way to act was. She wanted pizza and ice cream in her VIP lounge, she did it. She wanted to make Valentines with her fans during the February shows, have at it.
Ryan did things in her own unconventional way, and it only brought people closer and closer to her.
Skip
I had to be careful to stay levelheaded as record sales rose and Ryan’s shows began to sell out.It’s a good sign,I told myself. We’ve got a good thing going, and we’re going to stay the course.
Ryan and Jas were beginning to work on her second album, too, and I didn’t want us to get ahead of ourselves. I wanted her sound to stay raw and hungry and uninhibited. No time to rest on laurels.
But when I got the call that she was nominated for New Artist of the Year by the Country Music Association, I gave the whole studio the day off and took us out for ice cream.
Mari
Ryan was scary calm the whole afternoon leading up to the CMA Awards. I’d flown into Nashville a few days before, and we went to the zoo, the Johnny Cash Museum, the Parthenon. She seemed glad to have some time off and asked a lot about what was new with me. I told her that I would get my license in January, and she said, “Oh my god, I forgot.”
“Forgot what?” I said.
“Forgot to learn how to drive.”
