Consultation

According to Song Ya's plan, the song "Thrift Shop" would ideally be squeezed into Little Lowry's new album. After all, part of his "inspiration" came from that pink-suited, bass-voiced music company boss.

The "adaptation" design he had in mind for the original song involved Little Lowry handling the rap sections, while the bass-voiced boss would sing those incredibly catchy choruses.

He didn't dislike Little Lowry, and by preventing the failure of Little Lowry's new album, he could simultaneously solve Tony's "employment" problem while earning royalties for himself—three birds with one stone, a win-win for everyone.

However, this meant he had to put the plan into action before the cassette tapes for Little Lowry's new album officially went into production. Time was very tight.

His wallet was even tighter.

The liquid crystal numbers on the timer kept ticking away. He steeled himself and sat down across from Goodman.

"Yo!"

Goodman mimicked a Black accent and mannerism: "You made an incredibly correct decision, BRO!" He balled his right hand into a fist and extended it toward Song Ya.

Song Ya didn't respond; instead, he straightened his face and stared at him coldly.

"My bad."

Goodman cowered instantly. "Forget what I just did, SORRY, SORRY..." He awkwardly pulled back his fist, apologizing profusely. "I was just—I was just too excited. Business has been bad lately... Mr. Song, I am very, very sorry."

Most people of other races were still quite afraid of Black people pulling this kind of move, and even relatively honest Black people would occasionally use it to test the other party's mettle. Having transmigrated for so long, Song Ya had already mastered the nuances of this; the key was in the eyes—they had to carry a murderous intent.

"Just call me Ya Li. First question."

Taking advantage of the other party's small slip, Song Ya was now eighty percent sure that the man had no formidable background and wasn't very bold. Feeling slightly more at ease, he took out his notebook and asked, referring to the items written on it: "If someone is under eighteen, must a guardian sign a contract?"

"Of course."

Goodman hurried to the filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. "Or the guardian can sign a power of attorney, authorizing someone else to act on their behalf." He found a document and handed it to Song Ya. "This is a standard format for a full power of attorney, but if you need to delegate partial guardianship, you'll need a lawyer's help. Wait..."

He scanned Song Ya from head to toe carefully. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen. Why?" Song Ya replied casually while looking at the document.

"FXXX!"

Goodman cursed in annoyance. "I actually got bluffed by you just now. You little rascal!"

Given how cowardly you were just now, it doesn't matter if I was discovered. "Second question..." Song Ya continued to ask.

"What did you write down? It's too inefficient to ask and answer one by one."

But he hadn't expected Goodman to be the type to push his luck. To compensate for his earlier display of weakness, he reached out and snatched the notebook from Song Ya's hand. "Let me see. Hmm, copyright transfer for songs, equity sharing for music albums..."

He muttered to himself as he pulled relevant documents from the filing cabinet, tossing them to Song Ya one by one.

"That's basically it, but to be honest, these standard forms don't really work." Goodman sat back in his chair. "These laws have a lot of flexibility. Hollywood and the music industry have their own ways of playing the game. Finding a good agent is the most important thing."

"I've checked the information. Aren't there a few associations that can provide protection for the rights and interests of songwriters and song copyrights?" Song Ya pressed.

"You mean ASCAP and BMI?" Goodman explained. "First of all, they only provide services for the rights of their members. To become a member, you have to pay a fee—BMI is a bit more expensive, ASCAP is cheaper—and then you must have published works. Do you have any? If you do, they usually send you an invitation."

"No, I'm here for legal advice regarding my first song," Song Ya answered truthfully.

"See, that's the problem." Goodman spread his hands. "Without published works and an invitation, you aren't qualified to become a member, and without being a member, it's hard for you to publish works. It's a paradox, right?"

Song Ya felt a bit dizzy. "What about the copyright? My songwriting copyright won't be lost, will it? Like being forcibly seized by a music company?"

Goodman laughed. "That possibility is unavoidable. Hollywood supports so many agents, managers, lawyers, accountants, and the like. Why? Isn't it because there are too many things like that?"

"Like I said, find a good agent," he advised again.

"What if I encounter a 'bad' agent? According to what you said, if I haven't published any works, no agent will look at me, and if no agent looks at me, I'll never be able to publish works for the rest of my life. This is also a paradox!" Song Ya felt a bit frustrated; the gap between his ideals and reality was a bit wide.

"Getting into this industry is hard to begin with, kid."

Goodman pointed at Song Ya. "I've seen plenty of Black... ahem... African-American kids like you. Sitting in the back of the bus, humming songs, listening to a Walkman while scribbling on little scraps of paper, dreaming of becoming famous with one hit, right? Unfortunately, reality is cruel. Capitalist society will naturally eliminate everyone except for that tiny fraction at the tip of the pyramid. How many famous singers has Chicago produced in the last ten years? If you divide it by the population ratio, you'll get the probability of your success. And those young men and women who go to Los Angeles to chase their dreams—how many get good roles in a year? Most people are losers; your eyes just don't see them. Face your own abilities squarely and don't spend money on unrealistic dreams."

Nonsense. Am I the same as them? I'm a transmigrator with a cheat code! Song Ya rolled his eyes and complained inwardly.

The two talked for a while longer. Goodman observed Song Ya's demeanor and felt that he didn't seem like he was planning to give up, so he couldn't be bothered to persuade him further. "Regarding copyright, I'll give you a few pieces of advice. First, you must keep all evidence, including the manuscripts from when you wrote the lyrics and music. Don't throw away the drafts either; they come in handy when fighting copyright lawsuits. It's best to record a demo of the songs you create, because performing is also a form of copyright."

"Second, you can take your lyrics, music, and demo to ASCAP to file for copyright registration. It costs about twenty bucks or so. Note that this is just registration; it doesn't mean ASCAP acknowledges your copyright. If you want ASCAP to acknowledge your copyright, it will probably cost hundreds of dollars and take several months because they have to do things like comparison checks, and you still won't be a member."

"Finally, increasing the commission percentage for an agent is a good strategy for the first few years in the industry. Anyway, agent contracts cannot exceed three years. If you're not satisfied, you can just change people when the time is up. If you can really get into the industry, you'll be qualified to become an ASCAP or BMI member. By then, the various types of help the association provides will also take some of the workload off your agent, and many of the difficulties you face now won't be difficulties then."

After speaking, Goodman pointed to the timer; exactly fifty-five minutes had passed.

Song Ya felt that he was quite conscientious and had benefited a lot. He stood up, shook his hand solemnly, and said goodbye. "Thank you." He took out thirty-five dollars and handed it to him.

"Uh... the consultation fee is the consultation fee. You also need to pay the document fee, ten dollars per copy." Goodman pointed to the documents Song Ya had put into his briefcase.

"..."

Song Ya quickly took out all the documents, picked out the guardian authorization agreement he needed, took out another ten dollars, and returned the rest of the documents to Goodman.

"Cheapskate!" Goodman cursed. He carefully checked the banknotes he received again. "You're from the South Side, right?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes, why?"

"Be careful of those who pay contract fees in cash." Goodman flicked the banknotes in his hand. "You South Side Black... African-Americans like to accept cash payments because you can evade taxes. Once you evade taxes, if the tax season passes and he breaches the contract, you won't dare to sue him easily because if the contract is exposed, he only faces a lawsuit, but you have to face the IRS. Understand?"

Song Ya knew the power of the IRS. The most famous Chicago mob boss, Al Capone, fell into the hands of the IRS; they were even more terrifying than the FBI.

Thanking him once more, he left the Goodman Law Firm.