Entering the Trade

Taking advantage of the pizza break, Song Ya carefully observed the corner of the office dedicated to honors. As a singer, Old Joe only had a single trophy for ten thousand record sales of dubious origin, dating back to the sixties. In other words, this Thrift Shop track would likely propel Old Joe to a new peak in his singing career, even after his many years of retirement...

It was no wonder he had told Pablo to "not make things too complicated" earlier; he was probably even more eager for this song to be released than Song Ya was.

Pablo was indeed overbearing, but Old Joe was the one who had the final say in this music company. The boss's current behavior could be described as fanatical. After finishing his pizza, he immediately threw himself into rehearsals, his attitude far more proactive than Little Lowry and Old Morgan. During his spare time, he kept his phone glued to his ear, constantly booking drummers, keyboardists, and other accompanists, as well as scheduling professional mixing studios with major companies. His schedule was packed tight, and most of the time Song Ya heard him on the phone, he was talking about money.

Old Joe going to such lengths was naturally a good thing for Song Ya; their interests were largely aligned.

But Pablo was different. While he and Song Ya had no conflict regarding the general direction of Little Lowry's new album, there was still that old problem: the copyright of the lyrics. After storming out of Old Joe's office in a rage, he had immediately found Little Lowry and told him to start trying to rewrite the lyrics, all without seeking Song Ya's consent.

"Hey, kid."

Inside the office, Old Joe pulled Song Ya, who had come to complain, over to the window. "Look at them, look at those chicks..."

Night was falling, yet a fair number of men and women had gathered in the open space in front of the underground nightclub across the street. They spontaneously formed several circles, and from time to time, someone would step into the center to engage in various "battles." Whether it was rapping with constant hand gestures or dancing that looked like full-body convulsions, it drew gasps and cheers from the crowd, and the atmosphere was electric.

"I can't see their faces clearly..." Song Ya squinted, trying his best to make them out.

"I didn't ask you to identify anyone, idiot."

Old Joe pointed over there. "Let me put it this way: our Eric, that short, dumpy sound engineer—if he went down there right now, opened the door, picked any girl in that crowd, and said to her, 'Hey, you sing great, I really like your potential, how about you come upstairs with me and we record a song to test it out...' or something like that, what do you think would happen?"

"Get beaten up?"

"NO! I'll bet you that seventy, no, eighty percent of the girls there, even if they were snuggled in their boyfriend's arms a second ago, would follow Eric without hesitation the next second!"

"Uh..."

"What are those girls after? Huh? What for?"

"A dream of being a singer?"

"A singer's dream, a star's dream, a dream of being in the spotlight, a dream of being talked about, a dream of being chased, a dream of being cared for, a dream of luxury goods, a dream of an exquisite life—isn't that what women love?" Old Joe used a string of parallel structures. "Especially the women there. The underground club hasn't even opened yet, and they run over early to sing, dance, and network everywhere. Is it just for fun?"

"..."

Old Joe looked helpless. "You were as sharp as a Jew in front of Pablo just a moment ago, how did you become so stupid now! They want to break into the industry! They want to break into the industry! If sleeping with someone gives them a chance to get in, they know exactly how to choose. Do you understand now?"

Song Ya certainly understood. Old Joe's example was merely intended to facilitate a deal between him and Pablo as quickly as possible. Indeed, he hadn't even entered the industry yet, and being too stubborn about financial issues might prove counterproductive. "I respect you, boss, but Pablo insisting on taking my lyrics away is just... hard to accept."

"If you both take a step back, fifty-fifty, would you agree?" Old Joe proposed a new condition.

Song Ya considered it for a moment. "OK." He nodded. He didn't like Pablo much, but he was satisfied with Old Joe's attitude.

"Good. I'll talk to Pablo. You call your lawyer now, let's get everything settled as soon as possible!"

Old Joe pointed to the phone on his desk. "I have to remind you, if this wasn't beneficial to everyone, Pablo would never play it this way. He could have just gone along with you, tricked you into signing a management contract with him, and then played his games! He's already been very restrained. He has gang ties, Little Lowry has gang ties, and I do too. My music company even has gang shares. In the black neighborhood, you can't count on lawyers any more than you can count on cops. You grew up here too, you should know better..." He clenched his fist and gestured. "Take it easy. Everyone still considers you one of our own for now, so try to use fewer of those white-people tricks."

"I understand."

Song Ya agreed immediately. Watching Old Joe walk out of the office, he closed the door, found the phone number from Goodman's business card in his pocket, and dialed.

"Hello, this is the Goodman Law Firm. It is currently after office hours, please leave a message..." The call was transferred to an answering machine.

"Uh... Mr. Goodman, this is Ya Li, Alexander Song, whom you met last time. I have an urgent matter to consult you about. If you pick up now, I am willing to pay fifty dollars an hour..."

"Click." A rustling sound came from the receiver. "Hi, Ya Li, this is Goodman. How do you plan to pay? I don't do credit here, you know."

"Hello, Mr. Goodman, I will pay you in cash or by check as soon as possible, I promise," Song Ya replied.

"Chuck."

"What?"

"Chuck Goodman. Just call me Chuck. What do you need to consult about? Go ahead, I've started the timer."

"Okay." Song Ya told him everything he was facing.

"First, I don't have an artist management license, and I don't know the business. The industry you're in is very deep. Albums, singles, compilations, greatest hits, mixtapes... for all of these, the songwriter gets a different cut for each. You'll get burned if you're not careful, so I still suggest you find a professional to help you."

"Second, I don't know any professionals in your industry either, especially those who can operate in the South Side. But since you say you don't have anyone you can trust, you might as well trust the biggest ones. Their influence, professionalism, and manpower in Chicago are definitely not a problem. You can rest easy, and it saves you trouble. Of course, big shops bullying customers is inevitable; for a newcomer like you, they'll probably charge the maximum ten percent commission."

"Third, don't be afraid to sign a management contract. First of all, a standard management contract is at most three years. For a newcomer like you, the law only allows the first contract to be signed for one year. If you run into a shitty manager, at worst, you just let him get lost when the year is up. Besides, you're a minor; if anything goes wrong, the law will lean toward protecting you. Don't be afraid they won't pay attention to you either. According to what you said, the contract is about to be signed. If the management company sends someone over, they can get ten percent commission for nothing. There's no reason for them to refuse. Does anyone in this world hate money? Many managers have dozens of artists under them; one more won't hurt."

"Finally, as I said before, once you're in the industry, you can strive to become a member of the Songwriters Association. There will be even more benefits then."

In both consultations, Goodman mentioned entering the industry, and Old Joe had emphasized it just moments ago. They both leaned toward getting into the industry first no matter what. Song Ya looked out the window at the men and women singing and dancing in the cold wind in the open space, and finally made up his mind. Following the number provided by Goodman, he dialed the phone of one of the largest artist management companies in the United States, WMA (William Morris Agency).

The communication with WMA went much smoother than expected. Song Ya felt a huge weight lifted off his shoulders, let out a long breath, and pushed the door open to walk out of Old Joe's office.

"How did it go?"

Old Joe and Pablo were standing outside the recording studio chatting; it seemed they had reached an agreement.

"Mr. Pablo..." Song Ya smiled apologetically at Pablo. "My manager promised to come over tomorrow."

"That settles it! Let's all work together and get the new album out as soon as possible!" Old Joe patted both of them on the shoulder.

Pablo kept a straight face, but half a minute later, he pursed his lips and smiled, extending a fist. Song Ya quickly bumped it with his own.