Signing a Contract

William Morris sent over a white man named Hayden, around forty years old with an average appearance. By his own account, he was a middle manager at a Detroit car dealership before switching to the agency business less than three years ago. He was certainly "concerned" about cars; during the signing, he would walk to the window every so often to peek at his Dodge Dynasty parked downstairs at Joe Music, and every black kid passing by the vehicle made him nervous.

"Yeah, let's drink to this!"

Joe was very satisfied. Song Ya didn't intend to squeeze him for more at this juncture—mostly because Song Ya didn't dare to, nor was it necessary. The terms offered were basically no different from a standard transfer contract.

"Wishing the new album great sales."

Pablo was also accepting of the terms. Little Lowry's name appeared in the lyricist column alongside Song Ya's, though this was only for publicity purposes. In the contract, Little Lowry's actual equity in the lyrics was only half of Song Ya's. Of course, half was still a significant amount; that was a copyright that could benefit him for a lifetime.

In this contract, the lyricist and composer each accounted for about six percent of the Thrift Shop revenue. The lyrics were two percent for Little Lowry and four percent for Song Ya, which, added to the six percent for the composition, totaled exactly ten percent. If it were an album, the revenue would be on par with other songs. Taking an album with ten songs as an example, ten percent multiplied by one-tenth meant Song Ya would get exactly one percent of the album's revenue. This ratio had nothing to do with profit margins or anything like that; if an album cassette sold for five dollars, Song Ya would get five cents.

Don't look at the fact that it would take one million album sales to bring Song Ya fifty thousand dollars in income; the bulk of the money was in the subsequent singles. For a single, there was no need to split the revenue with other songs, so ten percent was a solid ten percent. Moreover, singles were usually released as vinyl records and mini CDs, which actually had a higher retail price than the currently popular cassettes.

"Hey." Song Ya raised his glass, taking the initiative to show goodwill toward Little Lowry.

The die was cast, and Little Lowry was no longer throwing a tantrum. Perhaps Pablo had laid it all out for him, giving him a clearer sense of self-awareness. "Cheers!" He downed his drink in one go. The relationship between the two would be subtle in the future, but everyone knew it was far too early to start calculating those things.

"Cheers." Hayden, who had spent half his life in sales, had his social skills on point. "Wishing the new album great sales."

"Cheers."

The drink in the glass was Joe's collection of Remy Martin XO. Song Ya tasted it first—it seemed people in southern China liked this too—and then he finished it in one gulp, feeling quite good about it.

None of the people present felt there was anything wrong with a minor drinking. Once the round of drinks was finished, Hayden and Pablo had two more contracts ready, and there were more signatures to be had.

First was the transfer fee. Song Ya transferred one-third of the lyric copyright to Little Lowry for a price of twenty-five hundred dollars. This figure was estimated based on fifty thousand album sales and ten thousand single sales. Hayden wasn't very satisfied and wanted to negotiate further, but Song Ya told him to let it go; he would consider it tuition for entering the industry.

Next was the non-disclosure agreement regarding the previous contract, commonly known as hush money, which was another twenty-five hundred dollars. From now on, in any setting, Little Lowry could claim to the outside world that he had written the rap portion of Thrift Shop, while Song Ya was only the chorus writer, and Song Ya had to fully support this narrative. As for the breach of contract penalty, that was just a meaningless number; Little Lowry wouldn't voluntarily reveal the truth, and if he himself went back on his word and changed his story...

Then it wouldn't be something that could be settled with just money.

Pablo took out five neat stacks of twenty-dollar bills and tossed them in front of Hayden, telling him to count them.

Song Ya remembered Goodman's instructions and secretly reminded himself that even with cash income, he couldn't forget to pay taxes. The U.S. tax season was coming up in April, and this was something he absolutely could not forget.

Once everything was finished, Song Ya paid Hayden his share and then sent him downstairs to leave. "You have two main things to do now: keep an eye on the copyright application progress and help me join the Songwriters Association as soon as possible." In front of Hayden's Dodge Dynasty, he gave his instructions.

"I'll keep an eye on it."

Driving to the South Side twice and reviewing a few contracts had netted him five hundred dollars, and for the next year, he would continue to get ten percent of Song Ya's royalty income. It was practically like picking up money. Although he still had to pay a portion to William Morris, Hayden was in a great mood. "No problem." He agreed immediately. "However, I suggest you join BMI (Broadcast Music, Inc.). The fees are higher, but BMI's clients have a greater overlap with your song's audience. You know, radio."

"I understand, you handle it."

The two had already had a good talk before this. Only after Song Ya felt he could recognize the other's professionalism did he take him and Aunt Susie to Goodman's law firm to sign his first agency contract since crossing over, and incidentally, to settle the bill with Goodman.

"Anything else? Do you want me to help you find more opportunities?" Hayden offered proactively. "Many small singers need lyrics, and I even have connections for some commercial ads if you can write them."

"Forget it."

Even if Song Ya could write them, he wouldn't. Without the "Apocalypse" cheat, he knew exactly what he was worth. "You should get going. It's not very safe for a white man to stay here too long," he reminded him.

"Uh..."

Hayden turned his head to look at the dark, crowded entrance of the underground nightclub across the street. "Then I'm off. We'll stay in touch by phone. Bye." He hurriedly started the car and disappeared with a whoosh.

Back upstairs, everywhere except the recording studio was full of people, and most of them were irrelevant hangers-on brought by various musicians—girlfriends, companions, and the like. Tony had even brought his ex-girlfriend; the two were huddled in a corner, being all lovey-dovey. The musicians who had joined one after another were sprawled across the control room sofas, watching the drummer inside test the sound over and over. The only one actually working the whole time was the sound engineer Eric. He had only slept a few hours over the past few days and looked completely wilted; Song Ya felt he might die of overwork at any moment.

The air was very stuffy, a mixture of perfume, weed, alcohol, tobacco, and a heavy scent of body odor. But perhaps that was just the norm in the music scene—everything could be a party. Even Joe, the boss, didn't mind. He held a glass of wine, surrounded by girls brought by the musicians, chatting away with great animation, looking like he was enjoying himself thoroughly.

Sigh, maybe it's because I'm the only outsider here.

In such a lively environment, Song Ya felt a sense of loneliness. The soul of a Chinese person made it impossible for him to truly blend in.

He remembered he hadn't been to school for several days; his grand plan of being a top student was in jeopardy. Then, he didn't know how or when the next "Apocalypse" would trigger, which made him feel a wave of frustration. Fortunately, the forty-five hundred dollars in cash in his pocket gave him great comfort.

The first pot of gold since crossing over is in hand. What should I do with it?

He thought about it. Without memories of his past life, he couldn't count on prophetic investments. In the United States, not having a car at home was truly inconvenient, so he went to find Tony. "Hey, accompany me to the used car market tomorrow."