The next song was an original Will played solo. It was the moment for the execs to see, and the moment for Will to really prove himself. He had calmed a great deal after the first number, so I knew he wouldn’t disappoint. He grabbed his electric guitar as Sheil made her way to microphone again. “I would like to introduce you to my personal friend, a very gifted artist who I believe you will be seeing much more of in the months to come. Will Ryan, everyone!”
He turned and gave me his cocky grin, shooting his eyebrows up. I laughed as he strolled to the center of the stage. He gave Sheil a kiss on each cheek and approached the microphone. “Everybody okay so far?” The crowd cheered. “Good, that’s good,” he said and then drove into a powerful guitar intro. When the song started to take shape, I heard the familiar melody. It was one The Ivans played a lot. Will was playing a bluesier version; I knew his soulful voice would lend itself perfectly to it. He sang almost the entire song with his eyes closed; his passion was inspiring and his voice resonant. He ended the song with the same powerful guitar lick it started with and when the sound ceased, you could hear a pin drop. His eyes shot open, he looked terrified, and then the crowd erupted. Even people lounging farther out in the grass, sitting on blankets or in chairs, stood up and began clapping wildly. There were whistles and cheers and then Will leaned in with mock shyness and spoke softly into the microphone. “Thank you, I’ll see you again in a bit.” Wearing the cocky grin, he scurried offstage toward me. The moment he reached the side of the stage, he was swarmed. I stepped back and let Will absorb the attention from everyone around. He glanced over at me and mouthed, “Hold on one minute.”
It was more than a minute. I saw record executives monopolizing Will every chance they had. I realized this was the beginning of a life for him that I probably wouldn’t be a part of. I suddenly felt a selfish pang of sadness. I watched as Sheil motioned for Will to get ready to go back out with her. He glanced back at me and surveyed my expression, then pointed and mouthed, “You okay?” I nodded. He went back out onstage with Sheil where they started tuning their instruments. They began playing a classical Indian piece; Sheil’s sitar playing was exquisite and Will complemented the sound delicately by playing just the neck of his guitar. He tuned the telecaster to the point where he was able to play the Eastern-influenced, bizarrely out-of-tune notes perfectly. Will’s musical acuity did not go unnoticed that night; the crowd went wild again.
When they were through, he looked happier than I had ever seen him. Another act took the stage as he approached me. “Okay, baby, what’s it gonna be?”
I stared into his eager eyes and said, “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” He nodded approvingly. He knew the song and I think he knew why I chose it.
When it was time to take the stage I was shaking. Will took my hand and held it all the way to our chairs. We sat down and began to play, me on the banjo and Will on the acoustic guitar. It was an out-of-body experience. I knew we played the song well; Will sang with a country twang but there was a blurriness in my vision that prevented me from savoring it the way I wanted to. It was over too soon and my memory of it would be like a dream. At the end, the crowd cheered and we walked offstage, waving.
“That was exhilarating,” I said to Will. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me in for a long hug. After the show, Will continued getting pulled in twenty different directions by all kinds of people who wanted to talk to him or offer him a spot in their band or represent him as his manager. There was no sign of his usual neurosis or spontaneous behavior—he remained gracious and attentive to everyone he came in contact with. After we said goodnight to Sheil, we headed out from the back of the stage where we ran into Frank Abedo, a well-known talent manager. I recognized him from an article I read in a music magazine where he was featured talking about the changes in the music industry over the last twenty years. He was widely respected as a manager with integrity and a real knowledge and passion for music.
“Will, can I speak with you for a second? Frank Abedo, Artistry Management.” Will shook his hand and smiled genuinely.
“Nice to meet you, this is my…” Will paused, stumped at how to refer to me. “Mia.”
“Your Mia?” Frank said to Will.
“No, I’m Mia,” I said giggling.
“No, my Mia,” Will finally said as we all laughed at the awkward exchange. Even though it was a slipup, Will referring to me as his gave me a warm feeling.
“Nice to meet you, Will’s Mia. Where are you guys headed?” Will told Frank that we were headed home, so he offered us a ride. When we got out to the parking lot we realized it was a very nice ride in a stretch limousine. Will didn’t skip a beat and I wondered if maybe he was getting used to being courted by industry people. Once inside the limo, Frank told Will how it was unusual for an artist to have the kind of hype Will did without even so much as submitting a demo tape. He said Will’s name had been swirling around the business for a while and it was time to get serious.