In the meantime, his following was growing. A group at Northwestern University had developed a web page dedicated to him that had more than six hundred thousand hits. The comments ranged from “You are an inspiration” to “If you ever come to Oklahoma, look me up.” Ray had become a minor celebrity, especially within college circles—he was the cool classical guy who could play jazz and everything else.
Only eight months until the Tchaikovsky Competition, and Ray was determined not only to apply but to win. The competition, founded in the 1950s and held every four years, was a cross between the Olympics and American Idol: it streamed live to more than five million classical music diehards who could rabidly vote for their favorite in various phases of the contest. Classical luminaries—a mix of musicians and conductors—served as judges.
Although the competition should be judged just on musical prowess—and, certainly, a wrong note or a flubbed phrase could destroy a contestant’s chances—Ray realized soon enough that, like all the other broadcast competitions, popularity with the audience could be a huge factor. Lucas Debargue, for instance, the self-taught pianist with brilliant blue eyes, was discovered while working in a grocery store: he won both judges’ and audiences’ hearts with flare and showmanship.
Ray wanted to win but felt like he had several hurdles to overcome if he got accepted to compete. First, he had to really up his game as a musician, and he was working on that: he and Janice were lining up expert teachers—specialists in Bach, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and the like—to drill him on the repertoire. Second, he was an American in a competition dominated by Asians and Europeans. Nothing he could do about that. Last, he worried that he was only a performer and not much of a showman: he wanted the audience not to just connect with his music but to remember him, to really engage with him on a deeper level. Lucas Debargue had been able to do this, and Ray thought he should, as well.
Showmanship wasn’t Janice’s forte—like Ray, she was a performer. So he started asking the various concertmasters, musicians, and conductors he played with for suggestions on who he could talk to about upping his showmanship game. Fellow musicians gave him names, so he internet-stalked them. One name kept reappearing: Kristoff van Cordan.
Kristoff was a German musical prodigy who had played concerts all over Europe by the time he was six. After several years as first violin in the Berlin Philharmonic （considered one of the very best orchestras in the world）， he burned out and turned to conducting, eventually landing a position as conductor for the Netherlands Philharmonic Orchestra for three years. He was known as a showman, spending hours focusing on production value—bright colored lights, elaborate costumes, and staging. Audiences loved him. He made the music dramatic, compelling, interesting, and fun.
Back in August Ray had filled out the Tchaikovsky Competition’s multiple forms, sent documentation, photographs, recommendation letters, lists of repertoire, performance schedules, and a video performance: all to prove his worthiness. Now, the last week in September, as he was checking his email right before he headed out to play a recital at Georgetown University, a new email awaited him from the directorate of the competition.
Dear Mr. Rayquan McMillian, We are pleased to inform you that…
That’s all Ray needed to read—he was in! Euphoria made his head swim.
He called Janice, who offered to reach out to specific teachers and help coordinate his lessons with them. In the meantime he’d make sure all of his performing repertoire would be the same musical pieces he’d be playing in the competition, so each performance would also serve as a means of practicing in front of an audience.
Now he needed to up his showmanship. As soon as his plane touched down at Reagan National Airport, Ray emailed Kristoff—what did he have to lose?
Chapter 18
Demands
7 Months Ago
Two weeks later, Ray was playing at the filled-to-capacity Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall, the audience buzzing about the phenom with the Strad. The first half of the recital was Brahms and Mozart. He played Brahms’s Sonata no. 3 in D Minor so passionately that he almost turned to his local accompanist to beg her to give him more support from the piano. She was a good pianist but had a very hard time keeping up with him.
Then he dove into the Mozart. The first movement was smooth and flawless, building to the second movement. The pianist was doing her best to anticipate his rubatos, but Ray kept cranking up the emotion to new heights. The third movement took off like a racehorse, Ray pushing the pianist. The notes flew by, and this time she didn’t disappoint, building to a final ritard into the last two measures that left them all breathless. The audience roared its approval.