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Faith: Does every day sound ok?
Eden: Yeah.
Manuela: Yeah.
Faith: Good.
Manuela: I’m so glad you’re doing ok, Eden.
Eden: No one is more surprised about that than me. But I am. I am doing ok. After a long time, I’m fine. And you’re the main reason for that.
Faith: You who? You me?
Eden: Both of you. I love you both so much.
Manuela: Love you too, Eden.
Faith: Love you too, sis.
New York
one
I had to dye my hair purple for tonight’s show.
It’s not permanent, but it’s there. After the first five songs, when the sweat really begins to pour down my face, the purple dye will glide down my eyes and make me look like an ‘otherworldly being made of magic and music’—and that’s a direct quote. Skye read it to me off of a major website yesterday. Supposedly, they were trying to describe the moment I came on stage with pink and blue dye on my black hair. The dye ended up on my cheekbones, eyelashes and on my chin.
The description is now on a video of me that’s gone viral.
My PR team is already discussing creating plastic dolls of me with these colors running down my cheeks. The doll is going to be limited edition, trademarked, the works. They are hoping that I will go viral tonight again with these colors, so that they can make purple Issy Wood dolls as well.
Issy Woo, that’s me.
My real name is Isaiah Matthew Jones Woo Pan. My mom is Chinese and my dad was American, thus the million names. I usually go by Isaiah Pan, but when I posted my first song online, I didn’t want to use my real name. Thus, Issy Woo was born.
Now I’m stuck with it and every other part of the glamorous life of being America’s prince of pop. I kid, of course. There is nothing glamorous about it. I’ve been on the road for two years now, and before that I barely remember anything, so intense and traumatic was the sudden onslaught of fame that found me when I released my first single.
I take in a deep, sharp breath, and the cue in my ear tells me to start singing before I walk on stage, so that I’ll appear already mid-song. Other than the ridiculous purple strands in my hair and all the silver of the rings and chains that are hanging down my chest, I’m dressed completely in black. A black mesh fitted shirt, tight black faux leather pants that move with me as I dance, and black boots that look chunky and silver-studded, but in fact feel like sneakers on my feet. How I wish I could just be myself, wear a white T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.
But I’m not myself.
I’m Issy Woo.
And Issy Woo needs to bring the color, bring the punk, bring the pop. Bring the darkness, bring the light. He has to be the embodiment of his music, and more importantly, the embodiment of his words. He has to bring the message physically, with his appearance, his looks, his clothes, his colors, and with his moves as well. He has to bring it all.Ihave to bring it all. No pressure.
The lights are blinding me as I appear on the arrow-shaped stage, my ring-pierced lips already singing the words I wrote barely two years ago, to sixty-five thousand people screaming my name.
It’s two days before Christmas, and this is the final show of the US leg of my Heartbreaker Tour. Nothing says Christmas like a stage bathed in neon purple lights and thousands of people screaming themselves hoarse over my voice, right?
They chant my name as I make my way to the stage, alone, no musicians or dancers on sight just yet, until the chants of: “Issy Woo! Issy Woo!” almost drown out the music in my ears. They keep going until my stage name becomes one huge, roar of: “EE-EE-OO! EE-EE-OO!”
It usually feels so strange, hearing that name: It’s not me, I’m not it.
But tonight, as light gives way to dusk over New York, I become it.
I become Issy Woo for them.
And in this moment, as I swing my guitar over my shoulders and step into place, my voice flowing over the familiar notes, my eyes adjusting as the headlight slowly reveals every single inch of my body to my screaming fans, for just that split second, I don’t hate my life.
