Veteran music executive Paul Corbin describes beloved banker Brian Williams as “the first stop for anybody who needed special attention.” And he was often the last stop. When every other bank turned you down, you could count on Williams—at least most of the time. “I remember going to him in 1989 to get a loan for my first tour bus,” says singer Alan Jackson. “We joked about it for years because at first he turned me down, but then we worked it out and I went on to be a big customer of his. He always took care of me.” And so Music Row fell silent earlier this week as word spread that the 45-year-old Williams had drowned at Center Hill Lake Saturday. “It’s been the most shocking death since I’ve been on Music Row,” says longtime artist manager Don Light. “It’s had an immediate impact, and it’s going to leave a void for a long time. I don’t know anybody who didn’t like Brian Williams, and I sure can’t imagine that there’s anybody in the world who didn’t respect him. That’s a pretty strong combination of being liked and respected.” Although Williams wasn’t the first Nashville banker to specialize in the music industry—First American’s Joyce Rice and Commerce Union’s Jimmy Kellam and Clarence Reynolds paved the way at least a decade before—he was a pioneer in opening the first full-service bank on Music Row. He launched Third National Bank’s music industry efforts in 1986 and in 20 years built the division to include 30 employees and music-industry units in Atlanta and Miami. Thanks to Williams—whose official title was senior vice president, group manager of SunTrust Bank’s Sport and Entertainment Marketing—SunTrust (formerly Third National) is the official bank of NASCAR and has motor sports offices in Daytona Beach, Fla., and Charlotte, N.C., and an office specializing in pro athletes in Orlando. He and co-worker Karen Clark were scheduled to travel this week to Washington, D.C., to work on the second unit focusing on pro athletes. “He was a rising superstar in that world,” says Universal South’s Tim DuBois. The term “banker of the stars” will be uttered often this week, and indeed that was true. “We’ve known Brian for nearly 20 years—since we first moved to Nashville,” say Faith Hill and Tim McGraw in a joint statement. “He was an integral part of the community who helped not only us, but so many in the industry.” Adds Sara Evans, “He had a great heart and made everyone feel like they were his most important client.” But he was also the dedicated banker to everyone else—the struggling musician, the dream-driven songwriter, the overdrawn music journalist. He had a heart for creative types because he was a musician himself; the guitar player performed in The Funky Cowboys until he and wife Marion had son Gray, now 5, and daughter, Ava Claire, 3. Because this kindred spirit was so warm and nonjudgmental, people didn’t hesitate to call and say, “I’m broke. Can you help?” Not only did he help songwriters consolidate loans, he found them side jobs to help them pay down their debts. He recently hooked up a Miami songwriter with hit writers here. He loved doing deals, no matter what they were. Racecar driver Kyle Petty says Williams spent the last two months diligently searching for an apartment for his college-bound daughter. “He was more than a banker; he was a friend to these people,” DuBois says. ASCAP’s Connie Bradley says Williams frequently gambled on unknown songwriters because he believed in their talent, and with his unbridled enthusiasm, he convinced his more staid bosses that a loan was a sound business decision. If he had a hunch about someone, he went with it, no matter how they looked on paper. “He would tell them, ‘When you have it is when everyone else is going to want you. We want to help when no one else will,’ ” says Karen Clark, now the interim director of SunTrust’s Music Row office. He circulated with ease between two diametrically opposed worlds—banking and entertainment—and was a leader in both. Williams always donned a suit because he believed people wanted to see their bankers dressed conservatively, but the frequent Bachrach customer took great liberties with color and texture. He was a trendsetter with hairstyles, whether it was a ponytail, the George Clooney-inspired Caesar cut or his short hair with highlights. But his Brooks Brothers-clad cohorts downtown didn’t criticize this rebel because his success spoke for itself. He was one of the few true good guys on Music Row and was known for always taking the high road. “He was always up,” Corbin says. “I never heard him talk about people behind their backs. I never heard him gossip. He stayed right on the task and always wondered about people and how they were doing, and then thought of ways to help them.” What makes Williams’ legacy so lasting—and his absence so profound—was his volunteer work with organizations such as Sound and Speed, MusiCares, the Country Music Foundation and Nashville Songwriters Foundation. He didn’t just sit on the boards; he personally got things done. “He was a doer, not a talker,” says Universal South’s Tony Brown. It’s not that Williams had more hours in a day than the rest of us, it’s that he used them so effectively. “Brian brought the same level of passion to everything he did,” says Joe Galante, chairman of Sony BMG in Nashville. “He was the guy in the room that always saw a solution to the problem.” Although he had a seasoned veteran’s workload, he maintained the enthusiasm of a rookie, and that inspired everyone around him to work harder. He demanded excellence and productivity, but he always did it with a smile—or the much-used “LOL” in an email. “He had too much personality for one body,” Kyle Petty says. “He was everything to everybody, and he was genuine in that. He is going to be missed in more ways than any of us can imagine. We’ll say, ‘We need to call Brian and ask him,’ and we won’t be able to call him.” Although he had a seasoned veteran’s workload, he maintained the enthusiasm of a rookie, and that inspired everyone around him to work harder. He demanded excellence and productivity, but he always did it with a smile—or the much-used “LOL” in an email. “He had too much personality for one body,” Kyle Petty says. “He was everything to everybody, and he was genuine in that. He is going to be missed in more ways than any of us can imagine. We’ll say, ‘We need to call Brian and ask him,’ and we won’t be able to call him.”
