While eating pizza, Song Ya had carefully examined the office's wall of honors. As a singer, Old Joe had only one dubious-looking award to his name: a record-sales trophy for ten thousand copies, won in the sixties. In other words, Thrift Shop might well bring Old Joe a new career high, even after all these years in retirement...
No wonder he'd just told Pablo, "Don't make things too complicated." He was probably even more eager than Song Ya to get the song out.
Pablo was certainly forceful, but Old Joe was the one who called the shots at this music company. His boss was acting almost feverish. As soon as they finished the pizza, he threw himself into rehearsals, much more enthusiastically than Little Lowry and Old Morgan. During every break, he was on the phone nonstop, lining up accompanists like drummers and keyboardists, as well as booking a professional mixing studio at a major company. The schedule was extremely tight, and Song Ya heard him talking about money for most of his calls.
Old Joe's willingness to spend so much was obviously good news for Song Ya. Their interests were largely aligned.
But Pablo was different. They didn't disagree about the general direction of Little Lowry's new album, but the same old problem remained: the song's copyright. After storming out of Old Joe's office, he'd gone straight to Little Lowry and told him to start trying to revise the lyrics, without first getting Song Ya's approval.
"Hey, kid."
In the office, Old Joe pulled Song Ya over to the window. "Look at them. Look at those girls..."
Dusk was falling, but the empty lot in front of the underground club across the street was crowded with men and women. They'd spontaneously formed several circles, and people took turns stepping into the middle to battle. Whether they were rapping and gesturing wildly or dancing as if their whole bodies were convulsing, they kept drawing cheers and gasps from the crowd. The atmosphere was electric.
"I can't see their faces clearly..." Song Ya squinted, trying to make them out.
"I'm not asking you to identify them, idiot."
Old Joe pointed across the street. "Let me put it this way. Our Eric, that short, ugly sound technician—if he went downstairs right now, opened the door, picked any girl there, and said, 'Hey, you sing great. I believe in you. How about coming upstairs with me? We'll try recording a song...' What do you think would happen?"
"He'd get beaten up?"
"NO! I'd bet you that seventy percent—no, eighty percent—of those girls would walk off with Eric without a second thought, even if they'd been cuddled up with their boyfriends just a moment earlier!"
"Uh..."
"What do those girls want? Hm? What do they want?"
"To be singers?"
"To be singers, to be famous, to be noticed, to be talked about, to be admired, to be loved, to have luxury goods, to live the good life. That's what women want!" Old Joe rattled off one comparison after another. "Especially the women there. The underground club isn't even open yet, but they've come early to sing and dance and make friends, building connections. Do you think they're just there for fun?"
"..."
Old Joe looked exasperated. "You were as sharp as a Jew in front of Pablo just now. How'd you get so stupid all of a sudden? They want to break into the industry! They want to break into the industry! If sleeping with someone gives them that chance, they know exactly what to choose. Do you understand?"
Song Ya understood, of course. Old Joe had brought this up because he wanted to get Song Ya and Pablo to reach a deal as quickly as possible. He was right: Song Ya hadn't even entered the industry yet, and getting too hung up on money could backfire. "I respect you, boss, but Pablo insisting on taking my lyrics away is... hard to accept."
"If you each give a little and split it fifty-fifty, would you agree?" Old Joe proposed a new condition.
Song Ya considered it for a moment. "Okay." He nodded. He didn't much like Pablo, but he was pleased with Old Joe's attitude.
"Good. I'll talk to Pablo. You call your lawyer right now, and let's get everything settled as soon as possible!"
Old Joe pointed to the phone on his desk. "I should also remind you: if this weren't good for everyone, Pablo wouldn't be handling things this way. He could've played along with you, tricked you into signing a management contract, and then pulled whatever tricks he wanted! He's already shown a lot of restraint. He has gang connections, Little Lowry has gang connections, and so do I. My music company has gang investors, too. In the Black neighborhood, you can't count on lawyers any more than you can count on the police. You grew up here, so you should know how things work..." He clenched a fist and gave it a little shake. "Take it easy. Everyone still sees you as one of us. Try not to use too many of those white people's tricks."
"I understand."
Song Ya readily agreed. He watched Old Joe leave the office, then shut the door, took the phone number from Goodman's business card out of his pocket, and dialed.
"Hello, you've reached the Goodman Law Office. We're currently closed. If you have a matter to discuss, please leave a message..." The call went to the answering machine.
"Uh... Mr. Goodman, this is Ya Li, Alexander Song. We met last time. I have an urgent matter I need to ask you about. If you can take my call now, I'm willing to pay fifty dollars an hour..."
"Click." A sound came through the receiver. "Hey, Ya Li, it's Goodman. How are you planning to pay? I don't do credit."
"Hello, Mr. Goodman. I'll 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 advice on? Go ahead. I'm starting the clock."
"Okay." Song Ya explained his situation in detail.
"First, I'm not a talent agent, and I don't know the business. Your industry is complicated. Albums, singles, split albums, greatest-hits albums, compilations... Songwriters get different shares from every one of those, and it's easy to lose out if you're not careful. So I still recommend that you get help from a professional."
"Second, I don't know any professionals in your industry, especially not anyone who works on the South Side. But since you say you don't have anyone you can trust, why not trust one of the biggest firms? They'll have the influence and expertise, and their people in Chicago should be reliable. You can feel confident, and it'll save you trouble. Of course, bigger firms take advantage of their clients. For a newcomer like you, they'll probably charge the maximum ten percent commission."
"Third, don't be afraid to sign with an agent. Management contracts are usually for no more than three years. For a newcomer like you, the law only allows a one-year contract for your first one. If you end up with a lousy agent, you can just tell him to get lost when the year's up. And you're a minor, so if anything goes wrong, the law will be more inclined to protect you. Don't worry that they won't take you on, either. From what you've told me, a contract is about to be signed, and an agency could send someone over and collect ten percent for doing practically nothing. They have no reason to turn you down. Is there anyone in the world who thinks money is a bad thing? Many agents have dozens of clients. One more won't make a difference."
"Lastly, like I said before, once you've entered the industry, you can try to become a member of the Songwriters Association. There'll be even more benefits then."
Goodman had brought up entering the industry both times they'd spoken, and Old Joe had just stressed the same thing. They all seemed to think Song Ya should get into the industry first, no matter what. Song Ya glanced out the window again at the men and women singing and dancing in the cold, and finally made up his mind. He dialed one of the numbers Goodman had given him and called WMA, one of the biggest talent agencies in the country.
His conversation with WMA went much more smoothly than he'd expected. Song Ya breathed a long sigh of relief, then opened the door and walked out of Old Joe's office.
"How'd it go?"
Old Joe and Pablo were chatting outside the recording studio. It looked like they'd settled things.
"Mr. Pablo..." Song Ya gave Pablo an apologetic smile. "My agent agreed to come by tomorrow."
"See? That settles it! Let's all work together and get that new album out as soon as possible!" Old Joe slapped them both on the shoulder.
Pablo kept a straight face. Half a minute later, he pursed his lips, then smiled too and held out his fist. Song Ya quickly bumped it.
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