by L. J. Greene
Upon a break with the label, many artists lost the rights to their music. Some even lost the rights to their name.
No, even licensed, I couldn’t act as Cadence’s attorney, but I could shed some light on the contract they were holding and, more importantly, I could protect them from making one of the most basic and egregious rookie mistakes in the business.
“If you sign this document as is,” I told my captive audience of four, “you will severely limit your ability to negotiate any of these terms when the long-form agreement is drawn up.”
They all nodded obediently, if not a little wide-eyed and frightened. That was good. It was healthy to be a little frightened.
“Okay. So let’s talk through the clauses and what they mean.”
Over the next hour, we walked through each one.
In general, it was best to limit the term of the deal as much as possible. Spire was asking for five LPs–one album, with four additional options. While that sounds like a good thing, the reality was that if the first album didn’t generate enough sales to cover all of the recoupable costs, what was left would roll over to the next. In this way, the modest advance Spire was offering on the front end of the record deal might be the only artist royalties Cadence would ever see for the life of that deal.
Of course, every artist enters a contract like this assuming that they’ll be successful–and in this case, I had every confidence that they would be–but lawyers earned their keep by factoring in worst-case scenarios. An ounce of prevention was always worth more than a pound of cure.
I was quite certain that their attorney would press for a shorter term–and likely a bigger advance.
I also took them through two clauses that can potentially put money in an artist’s pocket or leave it in the bank account of the label. The first was the method of calculation for the artist’s royalty and the second was the reductions in the mechanical royalties, otherwise known as the controlled compensation clause. The latter is especially important if the artist is also a songwriter.
And I’m not saying that the way this contract was written was usurious per se, but it certainly was not generous.
The clause that concerned me the most, though, was the one dealing with creative control. Now, this wasn’t the long-form agreement by any stretch, but something about the verbiage surrounding LP song selection and the order of songs released to radio just wasn’t…right. I kept reading it over and over in my head.
As worded, it didn’t seem to grant them any right of approval. That couldn’t be…
But my train of thought was interrupted by a large crunch followed by a slurp, and I looked up to find Nash quickly searching his immediate vicinity.
Next to him sat Jamie with the apple.
“What’s wrong?” he said to me around a mouthful of fruit. “Why did you stop?”
I looked at Nash. As, then, did Jamie.
“What? Did you want this?” Jamie asked him, molested apple in hand.
Nash made a face, but shook his head. He was no stranger to Jamie’s insatiable appetite.
Jamie turned back to me. “Why are you frowning?”
“It’s probably nothing. I just don’t like the look of this creative control clause.”
Jamie and Greg immediately rose from the couch and came to stand on either side of me, looking over my shoulder at the agreement.
“It looks like the label wants final rights to decide what songs go on the album, including the suggestion of songs not written by you.”
“Meaning?” asked Jamie.
“Meaning, I think, that if they don’t like the songs you’ve recorded, they could send you back to the studio to record songs of their choice. Those could be new songs that you would write, or potentially they could be songs that the label chooses for you.”
“Fuck that,” Jamie said emphatically. “I’m not agreeing to that.”
“Well, slow down,” Greg inserted. “It could just mean that they would want to give us some suggestions, right?” he asked me. “That’s normal.”
“I’m definitely not the expert here,” I said, in an attempt to diffuse the growing agitation in the room. “I only had a couple of classes in entertainment law. And a lot is changing.”
“Okay. But even if they wanted to leave open the possibility of having more creative control, that doesn’t mean they would actually exercise it. They wouldn’t sign us in the first place if they didn’t like our music.”
His assertion sounded more like a question.
“Fine,” Jamie countered, now teeming with tension. “Then they can take out that clause. No one is going to tell us what songs we can and can’t put on an album. Our sound is our sound, and it’s based on our experiences. I’m not singing someone else’s songs.”
Jamie’s hazel eyes locked directly on Greg’s blue ones. And the latter was no less intent in his stare. I was standing between the two men, but for all it mattered, I was invisible.
“And what if they say no, Jamie? You think they’d really give a deal to a brand new band without retaining some creative control?”
“It doesn’t sound like we’re talking about some creative control.”
Jamie took the paper out of my hands and reread the clause out loud.
“I know what it says. I don’t like the idea that they’d try to tell us what our album should sound like, either. But this is a record contract. This is what we’ve been working for. You knew we were going to have to make some compromises.”
“On money, yes.”
“So…what? You’d flush a deal down the toilet over this one clause? Is that what you’re saying?”
The conversation was quickly taking on a tone that made everyone in the room uncomfortable. Killian and Nash weren’t saying a word, and as for myself, I sorely regretted voicing my concern. This was an issue for their attorney to unravel.
“Well, let’s table this matter for the time being,” I offered. God, now I really sounded like a lawyer. “Greg’s point is a fair one. Why would they go out on a limb to sign you if they didn’t like what they’ve heard from you? Let’s let your attorney work that out.”
Jamie nodded in agreement, though his expression was clouded with noticeable concern.
“We don’t have an attorney,” he said, stating the obvious. “How much do you think a good one would cost?”
I stepped away and took a tentative seat on the edge of the recliner. There was an immediate sense of relief afforded by the physical distance from the two men.
Killian, I noticed, was looking at the agreement in Jamie’s hands as if it was an explosive device on the verge of detonation.
“My boss’s best friend is a well-known entertainment lawyer in L.A. Let me see what I can do.”
Jamie nodded again. This time he reached out and placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder in a rough squeeze of reconciliation. Greg nodded too, and the tension in his lithe frame seemed to drain as he exhaled a deep breath. Then he turned an uncertain half-smile on Jamie.
“Good,” he said. “Good plan.”
Chapter 16
Mel
JAMIE WASN’T SLEEPING. I WAS growing accustomed to the normal rhythm of his breathing when he slept and could easily recognize when it was off. I had awoken, myself, for no real reason that I could put my finger on–just an awareness of him, I think.
Earlier, I had gone to sleep in his bed, with his solid, naked torso curved around me and his fingertips faintly tapping out a repetitive pattern on the rise of my hip. He did that often, though I’m not sure how consciously aware of it he was.
But now, he lay perfectly still on his back, and perhaps it was his carefulness not to wake me that had had the opposite effect.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked him quietly.
He turned his head suddenly on the pillow.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine.”
His room was dark, the light from the street dimmed by rough linen curt
ains that hung from the window next to the shelving that held his books.
Jamie had a lot of books–fiction, travel, biographies, historical literature. He was well read–better than just about anyone I knew, college educated or not. Most of his books had been purchased at a flea market in the Ferry Building, and as such, many of the spines had a red, blue or green sticker indicating their modest price.
Stories and words; those were the tools of his trade, of which he was an avid collector. I wondered when it was that he had time to read.
But then again, he didn’t sleep well.
“Tell me,” I coaxed.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “The county fair, actually.”
Unlike mine, Jamie’s brain operated in a very non-linear fashion. He tended to think in a spiral formation. After a month together, I was learning to just go with it. Quite often in our conversations, I couldn’t see the eventual destination, but had grown to love the journey as a glimpse into the life experiences that had shaped him.
He turned on his side to face me, and reached a hand out to gently brush a hair off of my face.
“I think I told you that my family moved to America when I was nine, yeah?”
I nodded, my left cheek on the pillow as I watched him in the dim light.
“One summer day shortly after we’d arrived, my da told us that he was going to take us to the Alameda County Fair.” His gaze drifted down for just a moment. “Imagine that,” he said, as if in speaking of it, he was doing just that.
I was familiar with the fair, having grown up in the East Bay. It was the biggest one around.
“We were city kids from Dublin, so we’d never been to anything of that sort,” he said, returning to our conversation. “Cotton candy the size of your head, da had said, and funnel cakes and games and rides. It sounded fantastic. Really American, you know? And our da was taking us. We couldn’t believe our good fortune.”
Jamie lay back on the bed and tucked his left arm under the pillow behind his head, staring at a memory that seemed as fresh as the day it was minted.
“So, anyway, my brothers and sister and I all drew lots to see who would get to ride in the front rows of our station wagon. Cara and I and my brother, Allen, ended up in the way back. We didn’t care, though,” he said convincingly. “We were beyond excited for the fair. I can’t even tell you how much we wanted to go. Cara most of all.”
“The thing was,” he continued after a short pause, “my da never intended on going to the fair. He pulled out of the driveway, circled the block and then came right back to our house. Came right back,” he implored me to understand. Jamie shook his head in disbelief and his face darkened with the memory. “He just got out of the car, thinking himself hilarious for success of his prank. But we were kids; and we were devastated. God, Cara,” he said, tiredly rubbing the space between his brows. “She was not yet seven.”
His expression was hooded, but that in itself spoke volumes.
“Oh, Jamie.” I didn’t even know what to say–the cruelty of that one small tale was unimaginable. And I knew there must be many others just like it, though they were as foreign to my own experience as could possibly be. My heart broke for him, and I was angry, furious actually, and horrified for the boy he once was.
“No, it’s just…” He paused, dismissing the sympathy. “I only mention it because…d’you think that…”
“No,” I said firmly, his destination suddenly dawning. “They mean it. The contract is real, Jamie. It just needs some negotiation. Contracts always start from a position that’s more advantageous to the party that drafted it.”
Jamie was nodding, though I was convinced that he wasn’t at all convinced. And truthfully, neither was I. But I wasn’t sure if my interpretation of the intent of the contract was clouded by my low opinion of the A&R rep who was driving it.
“Right. Good,” he said, anyway.
I moved closer to him, laying my cheek on his formidable chest while his arms came around me once more. He smelled of Jamie–my favorite smell.
“It’s all going to work out. I know it will.”
I felt him nod and I laid a kiss on his chest. He squeezed me tighter to him.
“Sleep now, love.”
I nodded in return, though I knew I wouldn’t. Instead, I joined the silent vigil he kept, searching the night for some reasonable and obvious explanation of where all of this was headed.
Chapter 17
Mel
TWO DAYS LATER, I STILL hadn’t found it.
But I set aside the question in order to prepare for one of the most exciting experiences of my life to date. I was joining Cadence for a four-day tour in the Pacific Northwest.
Adam had done me two solid favors: (1) he convinced his best friend and music entertainment attorney, Gavin Barnett, to take on Cadence for a greatly reduced fee; and (2) he gave me two days paid leave.
The tour itself was arranged by the booking agent of a larger-name band, Echo Transit, that had asked Cadence to be its opening act. As a secondary band, Cadence received a smaller guaranteed minimum fee, but it could leverage the touring crew of the larger band and could make some additional money on the sale of merchandise. Most importantly, the venues booked in Portland, Tacoma and Seattle held between 1,000 and 2,500 people, so the exposure was priceless. Jamie joked that I would function as Cadence’s road manager for the gigs.
So, here is what I learned about touring: other than the 50 minutes per day of stage time, most of your hours are spent driving to the next location and waiting around to perform. In four days, we did an enormous amount of both. As a result, you get an odd mixture of extreme togetherness and extreme isolation. The togetherness, obviously, stemmed from the fact that you rarely get a break from each other, except when you can go into your own head. It seemed to me that everybody had his own strategy for accomplishing that. The guys did a lot of reading, listening to music with their headphones, sometimes watching TV or tinkering with a song. But it’s that very dynamic, in addition to the fact that you’re plucked from your life for a time, that can also be very isolating and give you an aching sense of loneliness.
I said as much to Jamie at one point, and he told me that guys who do a lot of touring tend to come to crave that feeling of isolation after a while. It just becomes part of their DNA, whether they’re at home or on the road. He said it can make relationships hard. I wondered if he was speaking from experience; I wondered if he was talking about ours.
As for my own strategy, I made myself useful during the downtime by seeing to the business side of things that the band tended to put off. I reconfirmed our hotel arrangements, reviewed the contracts to ensure that Cadence’s modest rider requirements were met by the venue, and saw to it that the band was paid promptly and correctly. Had anyone sliced my head open at any point along the tour, they would have seen dozens of sticky notes on my brain that pertained to a plethora of details, big and small.
I really kind of loved it.
The time together also left us a lot of time to talk and get to know each other. And I really loved that, too. To many outsiders, for better or for worse, Cadence was Jamie. That was often true of the front man. But, in fact, each member was a distinctly strong character–an important leg without which the table would collapse.
Nash was calm and precise, the quiet captain of the beat; his gift to the band was his consummate exercise in restraint in the service of a song.
Greg seemed to be the band’s perfectionist and music geek, relentlessly self-effacing about his bass playing, and believing, like Jamie, that music should challenge you, sometimes make you uncomfortable.
And by comparison, Killian was much more wry and unflappable. He was the diplomat, the glue–both musically and interpersonally.
But of them all, Jamie seemed to be the one who most loved the romance of friends in a band; as such, he would likely be eternally broken-hearted over the break-up of the Beatles. And he was also the one who could be most fired up by t
he prospect of the next experience, the next person to meet, the next record to make, the next…anything. He reflected his vitality in his songs, but he was also perfectly willing to air every frailty he had through his music, such that his work would have meaning–not just to him, but also to anyone who cared to listen.
It was the combination of these personalities that transformed four very capable musicians into a cohesive band. And it was likely their mutual love for each other and the dynamic they shared that compelled them over the course of the tour to completely avoid any discussion whatsoever of the pending recording contract.
It was the perpetual elephant in the room. That which shall not be named. The volatile thing that had the power to propel their success or destroy their unity entirely. And nobody wanted to go there. Gavin was in the process of negotiating on the band’s behalf, and everybody seemed perfectly happy to leave well enough alone for now.
So the tour took on the feeling of the eye of a storm, a brief reprieve in which they could take a moment just to remember why they wanted to do this in the first place.
And God, what a moment it was. All of the shows were phenomenal, but Seattle was especially so, performing to a packed house of nearly 2,000 people. And rather than starting in the usual way–half the crowd hanging back by the bar and many coming in later, expecting a mediocre opening act–this show quickly took on the feeling that something very special was happening, one of those ‘remember when’ moments.
From the very first song, the theater came alive with the grinding textures of alternative rock, and the energy in the room was palpable. Killian strummed the opening chords to one of their older songs, The Shadow One, and the screams rippled back through the crowd. Whether the band was fueling the audience or the reverse was true, in no time the two were feeding ravenously off the other. Jamie was Jamie–he was a force of nature on and off the stage, but tonight he performed with an adolescent glee that was utterly contagious. He was talkative and personable, romping through the vast landscape of his brain for any interesting nugget that seemed worthy to share. Some crowds don’t like a lot of talk; this one ate it up and begged for more.
