Millions for a Song

by André Vanasse

  “Whoa! Whoa! Calm down. Don’t freak out. I never said you were slow on the uptake. I just wanted to know if you got my plan. I’ve had it up to here with you and your mood swings! And I’ll have you know, I can outplay you any day. You’ve got nothing to teach me on that score.”

  “Just what I thought—you think you’re better than everyone else. Take a good look in the mirror. One of these days, you’re going to have to stop living in your dream world and face reality ...”

  Mélanie grabs her coat and storms out, slamming the door behind her.

  As she’s leaving, I bark out a laugh. My revenge. She’s fuming, I know .... Well, good for her! I’m pretty pissed off myself. I hate being told I’m a crappy musician. Who does she think she is, the little twerp? The queen of rock? What does she have that I don’t? It’s not like she’s Madonna or anything.

  I watch her run down the street. I hate her. A good thing you got the hell out of here, Mélanie, else I’d have ripped you to shreds.

  No matter how much I try to tell myself that I couldn’t care less about Mélanie’s moods, I would really rather not have to see her today. But I need to chat with the band about a management proposal that came up this week. If Mélanie isn’t there, there’s no way we can make a decision. Even though I can’t stand her right now, I can’t do without her. Just the thought of trying to makes me break into a sweat!

  Thankfully, Jean-François acts as a buffer between Mélanie and me. He’s one laid back guy, as steady as a rock. He’s got a knack for calming people down. So he’s the one who calls Mélanie to talk her into coming over to my place. Of course, she takes her own sweet time deciding but eventually relents when faced with Jean-François’ insistence and the promise I’ll make amends. She agrees to be part of the discussion.

  One thing can be said about Mélanie, she doesn’t hold a grudge. Me either, luckily. Even though, when our eyes meet as she first walks in, it’s more like an exchange of gunfire than a simple glance, the two of us soon figure out that we’re better off laying down our weapons.

  So we make peace and fall into each other’s arms, purring in contentment. In my ear, she whispers that she didn’t mean a word of it. Then langorously, “You have to know that when I sing, I sing for you ...”

  Obviously, she’s lying, but it makes me happy anyway. So I respond in kind. “I’ve got to tell you, Mélanie. Not only are you the most gorgeous girl I know, you’re also the smartest.”

  I can’t help adding, “Too bad you’re also the most insufferable!”

  She punches me in the ribs, hard enough to wind me. Then she kisses me with such ardor that it feels like she’s crossed a line. I am suddenly brutally full of desire for her. I absolutely have to step away, otherwise she’s going to have me wound around her little finger.

  “Bad idea, Mélanie. It’s too dangerous a game.”

  She looks at me with soft eyes.

  I’m able to resist; we’ve got pressing matters to discuss, namely who will manage our band. The subject is even harder to broach because the man who’s aiming for the position really rubs me the wrong way.

  He’s one of those people who always look so sure of themselves, the kind who greet you like they’ve known you forever. Overdressed, of course, a suit and tie and such perfect hair you wonder how they don’t muss it up. Doesn’t the wind blow where they come from?

  When he accosted me, he had a Colgate smile plastered on his face. He said he’d heard about our band. He seemed to know so much I almost felt like asking whether he hadn’t founded the band, instead of us.

  He wasted no time before launching into his spiel. “I heard you at Brébeuf. No doubt about it, you’ve got potential. But you know, my man, a band needs a mover and shaker to make it in this world. And I’m your man.

  “I know the game. I’ve been in the music business for a long, long time. I started with Les Classels. I’ve managed Michèle Richard and Michel Pagliaro. Tony Roman. Then Corbeau. I’m planning to sign Marjo any day now. She’s a given since she used to work with Corbeau. I worked with Corey Hart, too.”

  He fixed me with a stare. He looked so smug, arrogance was positively dripping off him. Seemingly satisfied he had my attention, he ploughed forward, “I don’t waste time. So if you want to be one of the privileged few, I’m your guy. For twenty-five per cent of your earnings, I’ll have you playing all over Montreal and throughout the province. I already have two bookings lined up for you.”

  My incredulous stare played right into his hands. “You don’t believe me? Think I’m bluffing? Look at this.”

  From his jacket pocket, he pulled two actual contracts, one for a show at St. Pierre Clavier parish hall, the other for the Duvernay Rec Centre, each clearly stating that we’d be paid $450 to play an hour and a half show.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  He chose that moment to show me how quickly it could all disappear. “Listen, my man, if you turn me down, I’ll just plug in another band’s name. No skin off my back.”

  His ploy practically had him salivating. He added, “On the other hand, if you accept, our partnership begins. Meaning if things go the way I think they will, we’re set for a meteoric rise. After six months, I can guarantee—as long as you work your butts off, of course—that I’ll land you an exclusive contract with a major recording company, Columbia, Geffen, or Mercury Records.

  “Once you’re on the road to glory, the hit list won’t be far behind. The big time. We’ll be rolling in money. Hang on tight, my man, because it won’t be long before we’re in New York.

  “We’ll travel from one capital to the next. Just like that. In the blink of an eye. We’ll cross the Atlantic, then the Pacific before there’s time to down a glass of scotch. We’ll be flying first class, of course.

  “My man, listen carefully to Tom. Within a year—two, tops—we’ll have made our mark on the world’s major capitals. Have you heard of Seoul? Sydney? Don’t worry, because that’s where you’re headed whether you’ve heard of them or not!”

  I do such a spot-on imitation of Tom Paradis that I’ve got Mélanie, Jean-François, and Bruno killing themselves laughing. I finish off by adding, partly in jest, partly in warning, “From then on in, Tom Paradis ranked among the acting greats. He was so wrapped up in his performance that he managed to convince himself of his dreams of grandeur. Eventually, he had to wind down. That was when I said I’d talk to you guys and we’d come to a decision over the weekend.”

  I wait for their reaction. Knowing what a crucial moment this is, I can’t help pounding the point home. “This is our decision to make. The problem is we’ve got to act quickly—the shows are scheduled in the next two weeks. Either we say yes and climb on board with Tom Paradis, or it’s a no and we wait for other offers to come in sometime in the next month, the next six months, the next year.”

  They hesitate, at a loss for words. There’s a long pause. So I take the plunge. “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t see why we shouldn’t work with him. Anyhow, no one in the band is eighteen yet. If ever we want to get rid of him, when the time’s right, we can just say we were naïve and let ourselves be duped by an adult. What do you think?”

  The discussion begins. Everyone has an unkind word to say about Tom Paradis. Yet no one can ignore his strongest argument, namely the two concert dates he’s ready to offer from the word go. The prospect of having a show every weekend appeals to us all.

  It’s not like anyone else has anything better to offer. Not us, in any case—we haven’t got a clue how to “sell” what we’ve got. Or time to do it either. All four of us are still in school and stuck at home every weeknight.

  Plus, we know no one in the industry. Tom Paradis’ timing is perfect, and we’d be crazy not to take him up on his offer.

  But Mélanie warns us to be careful, “Let’s only commit to a year with him. That way, if ever we aren’t happy with his servi
ces, we can move on. He can do the same.”

  Once our strategy has been established, we decide to schedule a meeting with Tom Paradis for the next day.

  As expected, no one in the band likes the man. Not that that stops him from getting exactly what he wants. The one-year contract immediately morphs into a five-year contract. “Do you think I’m crazy? That I’m going to bust my butt for you, put you on the map, and then be told ‘thanks but no thanks’ once I’ve launched you into the upper stratosphere? Listen, kids, who do you take me for? Some newbie? Hold on here! I’m Tom Paradis. I’ve been in the biz for years. I don’t need you to make a living …”

  Faced with his outright refusal, we cave. We agree to a five-year contract, each of us thinking to himself/herself that if ever a dispute arises, we can always pull out our trump card—the fact we were minors at the time the contract was signed.

  To be honest, we’re ready to sign pretty much anything. Tom has managed to convince us that, thanks to him, a dazzling career awaits.

  If Mélanie hadn’t kept her eyes peeled, we could have lost some big money. The contract was so long and written in such complicated legalese that the rest of us didn’t notice a clause stipulating that all songs (lyrics and music) legally belong to our manager—that is Tom Paradis.

  Tom Paradis seems less than thrilled when Mélanie zeroes in on the clause. He tries to wriggle out of it, claiming it’s no big deal. “Do you know how much money songwriters make? Chump change, that’s what! You have to be crazy to write songs in Quebec. You’ve got to understand that the clause is meaningless. In fact, I’m not even sure why it wasn’t deleted. I asked my lawyer to do just that; he must have forgotten.”

  But Mélanie doesn’t back down. She insists that he cross out the paragraph and initial the change.

  Eventually, he does as asked, not without drafting a new clause that says, more or less: The parties agree that the songs (lyrics and music) for which they hold a copyright belong to them. This agreement comes into effect on the signing of the contract and nullifies all former provisions.

  “What does that mean?” Bruno asks.

  “Just that we’ve withdrawn the crossed-out clause. That’s what you want, isn’t it? As long as a copyright has been taken out on the song or proof is provided as to who wrote it, the song belongs to that person. Seems clear to me. Who says you won’t start singing some of my songs down the road? In case you didn’t know, kids, I too am a songwriter …”

  We decide to back down. Why wouldn’t we sing his songs if they were any good? One thing for sure, we can’t challenge his right to write them.

  So we initial the clause. And Tom’s smile returns.

  But that one detail makes us wary. We decide we’d best be careful around our manager. Maybe he’s right and songwriting isn’t very lucrative in Quebec, but it remains to be seen. We decide to do some checking as soon as possible and remember to take care of our copyrights, too.

  Finally, an exasperated Bruno cries, “Let’s not get all paranoid. Our songs are our songs after all. We wrote the lyrics and the music together. We can all be called on as witnesses to that fact and as authors of the songs. Just let Tom try to challenge that right and he’ll see who he’s up against!”

  We say good-bye, knowing we’ll be playing at St. Pierre Clavier in a week from now … No doubt about it, the wheel of fortune is turning in our favor.

  Tom didn’t lie. Since signing with him, we haven’t stopped. We haven’t had a single weekend off. We’re being showered with contracts. It’s been a crazy whirlwind!

  My parents aren’t nearly as thrilled. Especially not my dad, who’s been driving us to and from every show. Thankfully, Bruno’s and Jean-François’ parents have agreed to help out or it would have been game over for us. My dad was done with being our taxi service. His mood greatly improved when he found out he’d only be “on duty” once every three weeks from now on.

  At any rate, his suffering won’t last forever since Jean-François should have his driver’s license any day now. We won’t have to be so dependent. Better yet, Jean-François will have the use of his mother’s car since she doesn’t need it on weekends.

  So everything is coming along nicely. We’re definitely starting to make a name for ourselves. Kids are humming our songs all over the place. Too bad we haven’t been able to do any recordings yet. Tom says he’s doing his best on that end, but times are tough and we’ll just have to wait a few months, maybe even a year.

  But we’re so gung-ho. You’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot, my dad always says—not that he’s your blacksmith type.

  If only we had CDs to sell after every show, we could sell dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands. The crowds just keep getting bigger. We are without question the “it” group. Our first audience had it right: we’re almost as popular as The Box.

  Our biggest asset is our female singer. You might not think it, but it works doubly in our favor: girls identify with Mélanie and guys fall for her. The more shows we do, the better she gets. She’s dynamite on stage. A real firecracker!

  Needless to say, after six months performing all over Montreal and area, a CD would give us a fresh start.

  We’ve broken in several songs, changed the lyrics on others. We’re convinced that “Live in the Dark” could be a huge hit. It’s simple but catchy from the very first note on. I often hear teens humming it in school or on the bus.

  When I need help

  And nobody comes

  I’m left alone

  To grow by myself

  When I need love

  And nobody cares

  I’m left alone

  Carry on myself

  Pain and hurt

  Just staying alive

  It’s sad for me

  When it’s fun for you

  Forget this truth

  Like living a lie

  Try running away

  From old Destiny

  (chorus)

  I live in the dark

  I live in the dark

  And it’s the night

  All day long

  We’re so desperate to record that we accept Tom’s back-up plan. A homemade option. Tom provides a recording studio and produces a CD for sale in schools, under the table.

  The problem, though, is the whole thing will cost at least $6,000, money that has to come out of our pockets. But Tom’s agreed to ante up the cash, and we’ll pay him back with the proceeds from our shows.

  We’re tempted by the whole arrangement, as unprofessional as it sounds. We’d rather have a legit CD. But by accepting, it’ll be a way of getting our songs circulating through the schools, where our audience is.

  Tom even came up with the idea of hiring a roving sales team—comprised of students—to sell the CDs in schools. The hitch is that he’s dead set against giving us any royalties. He claims the whole operation requires too big of an investment, money that could be put to better use elsewhere. He’s adamant. “If you think that on top of lending you that amount of cash, I’m going to hand over royalties to the copies sold, you’ve got another think coming. I’m no Santa Claus!

  “I’m willing to take the risk even knowing I could lose my shirt on the deal. You know as well as I do that most students burn their own copies of their favorite singers’ songs.

  “So if I’m lucky, I’ll clear at the most $1,000 from CD sales. That’s equal to the commission I’d be entitled to anyway. But if sales are more sluggish, I probably won’t make a cent off a $6,000 investment and a project that will take at least three weeks’ full-time work from me.

  “In other words, I’ll have done all that for nothing, and lost money to boot. That would make me, Tom Paradis, the king of fools. If that’s what you think, I’ve got news for you! Anyway, enough idle chit-chat. Take it or leave it, end of story.”

  So we take
it! The desire to see our band’s name on a CD is too strong. We can’t resist. We sign an I.O.U. with him. And keep our fingers crossed.

  What a disappointment! The CD cover is godawful. Luckily, the sound quality’s not bad. But that picture! Yuck! Tom’s taste to a T. About as tacky as can be. A black-and-white picture of Mélanie dressed like a call girl.

  How could she have agreed to be photographed in that getup without consulting us first? It’s a total mystery to me. Tom must have convinced her that what sells tapes isn’t always tasteful. Not that he can distinguish between what’s tasteful and what’s not. Sometimes I wonder why he ever took us under his wing.

  As for Mélanie, she’s barricaded herself behind a wall of silence. It’s like she’s become Tom’s ally. She claims the picture isn’t all that bad, it’s just my jealousy talking. For the past few weeks, Mélanie’s pretending she’s someone she isn’t. Better than everyone else. She slips away every chance she gets.

  I suspect she’s let herself be taken in, again, by an older man. That’s her downfall: she’s obviously searching for a father figure to replace the one she doesn’t have. But it’s impossible to coax her to talk about it. She’s as silent as a tomb. As mysterious as all the great seductresses.

  Our CD’s a huge hit! Since it came out ten months ago now (boy, does time ever fly), it’s sold like hotcakes.

  One other thing bugs me: the songwriting credits are nowhere to be seen. Tom claims he forgot. But he sure didn’t forget to write: © Tom Paradis Inc. and the year.

  When I pointed it out, he immediately bristled, “Really, Alexandre, do you not know anything? For your information, I have to put that logo on everything I produce for tax purposes. It’s the law. So much so that I’m not even the one who saw to it, the printer looked after it. Nothing can be published without showing the person responsible. Income tax, buddy, ever heard of it? Of course not. The day you start paying, you’ll understand …”

  What can I say other than that his explanation doesn’t change the fact that our names don’t appear anywhere on the CD and that’s got me pretty mad?