Consultation

According to Song Ya's plan, the best place for "Thrift Shop" was on Little Lowry's new album. After all, part of his "inspiration" came from that music company owner in a pink suit with a bass voice.

His idea for "adapting" the original song was to have Little Lowry handle the rap parts, while the bass-voiced boss sang those ridiculously catchy choruses.

He didn't dislike Little Lowry, and helping the kid avoid a flop with his new album would also solve Tony's "employment" problem. Song Ya could even earn songwriting royalties. It was a win-win-win.

But that meant he had to put his plan into action as soon as possible, before the cassette tapes for Little Lowry's new album went into production. He didn't have much time.

And his wallet was even tighter.

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

"Yo!"

Goodman imitated a Black man's accent and mannerisms. "You made the absolutely right decision, bro!" He clenched his right hand into a fist and extended it toward Song Ya.

Song Ya didn't return the gesture. Instead, he set his face and stared coldly at Goodman.

"Sorry."

Goodman immediately backed down. "Forget I did that, okay? Sorry, sorry..." He awkwardly pulled his fist back and apologized repeatedly. "I just—I got too excited. Business has been bad lately... Mr. Song, I'm very, very sorry."

Most people of other races were still pretty wary of Black people pulling a move like that. Even the more honest ones would sometimes use it to test how someone would react. After living in this world for so long, Song Ya had learned how to handle it. The key was his eyes: they had to look dangerous.

"Just call me Ya Li. First question."

Taking advantage of Goodman's little slip, Song Ya was now eighty percent sure the man didn't have any powerful connections and wasn't very brave either. Feeling a little more at ease, he took out his notebook and asked, "If you're under eighteen, does a contract always need to be signed by your guardian?"

"Of course."

Goodman hurried over to the filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. "Or your 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 power-of-attorney form. But if you want to delegate only some of your guardianship rights, you'll need a lawyer to help. Wait..."

He gave Song Ya a careful once-over. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen. Why?" Song Ya replied absentmindedly as he looked over the document.

"Fuck!"

Goodman swore in frustration. "I can't believe you bluffed me just now, you little smartass!"

Given how timid you were a minute ago, it didn't matter if he'd figured it out. "Second question..." Song Ya continued.

"What did you write down? Going through them one by one like this is way too inefficient."

But Goodman turned out to be the type who took an inch when given a mile. To make up for having looked timid earlier, he snatched the notebook from Song Ya's hands. "Let me see. Hmm, transfer of song copyrights, royalty splits for music albums..."

As he read through the list, he found the relevant documents in the filing cabinet and tossed them to Song Ya one after another.

"That's mostly it. But to be honest, these standard forms aren't much use." Goodman returned to his seat. "The law leaves a lot of room for interpretation, and Hollywood and the music industry each have their own way of doing things. The most important thing is to find a good agent."

"I looked into it. Aren't there a few organizations that protect songwriters' rights and copyrights?" Song Ya pressed.

"You mean ASCAP and BMI?" Goodman explained. "First, they only protect the interests of their members. To join, you have to pay a fee. BMI costs a bit more, ASCAP a bit less. Then you need to have a publicly released work. Do you? If you do, they'll usually send you an invitation."

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

"You see? That's the problem." Goodman spread his hands. "Without a publicly released work and an invitation, you're not eligible to join. But without joining, it's hard to release your work publicly. It's a paradox, right?"

Song Ya was getting a little confused. "What about the copyright? I won't lose the rights to my lyrics and music, will I? Like, if a music company just takes them from me."

Goodman laughed. "You can't rule out that possibility. Why do you think Hollywood keeps so many agents, managers, lawyers, and accountants in business? Because this kind of thing happens all the time."

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

"What if I meet a 'bad' agent? According to you, no agent will want me if I haven't released anything publicly. And if no agent wants me, I'll never be able to release anything. That's a paradox too!" Song Ya was a little discouraged. The gap between his ideal and reality was pretty wide.

"Breaking into this industry is hard, kid."

Goodman pointed at Song Ya. "I've seen plenty of Black—uh, African-American kids like you. Sitting in the back of a bus, humming along to their Walkman while scribbling on little scraps of paper with a pencil, dreaming they'll become famous with one hit, right? But reality is cruel. In a capitalist society, only a tiny fraction naturally rise to the top of the pyramid. How many famous singers has Chicago produced in the last ten years? Divide that by the population, and you'll get your odds of making it. And what about all those boys and girls who head to Los Angeles to chase their dreams? How many land a decent role in a year? Most people fail; you just don't see them. Be realistic about what you can do. Don't waste your money on unrealistic dreams."

As if I'm like them! I'm a time-traveler with a cheat code! Song Ya rolled his eyes and grumbled to himself.

They talked for a while longer. Goodman read Song Ya's expression and realized he didn't seem ready to give up, so he stopped trying to talk him out of it. "As for copyright, here are a few pieces of advice. First, keep all your evidence, including your original drafts and rejected drafts. Don't throw anything away; it could come in handy in a copyright lawsuit. It'd be best to record demos of all your songs too, because a performance is also protected by copyright.

"Second, you can take your lyrics, music, and demo to ASCAP to register them. It'll cost around twenty bucks. Keep in mind, this is just a registration; it doesn't mean ASCAP recognizes your copyright. Getting ASCAP to recognize it would probably take another few hundred dollars and several months, since they'd need to do things like compare it with other works. And you still wouldn't be able to become a member."

"Finally, offering an agent a higher percentage is a good strategy for the first few years in the business. An agent's contract can't be longer than three years, anyway. If you're not happy, you can just get someone else when it ends. If you really do make it in the industry, you'll qualify to join ASCAP or BMI. The help those organizations provide can take some of the work off your agent's hands, and many of the difficulties you're facing now won't be difficulties anymore."

When he was done, Goodman pointed at the timer. Fifty-five minutes had passed.

Song Ya felt that Goodman had been pretty decent. He'd learned a lot. He stood up and shook Goodman's hand solemnly. "Thank you." Then he took out thirty-five dollars and handed it over.

"Uh... The consultation fee is separate. You also need to pay for the documents: ten dollars each." Goodman pointed at the papers Song Ya had put in his briefcase.

"..."

Song Ya hurriedly took out all the documents, kept the guardianship power-of-attorney form he needed, then pulled out another ten dollars and returned the rest of the papers to Goodman.

"Cheapskate!" Goodman grumbled. Then he carefully checked the bills he'd received. "You're from the South Side, right?" he asked suddenly.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Watch out for people who pay contract fees in cash." Goodman tapped the bills in his hand. "People in your South Side Black community like cash payments because they can dodge taxes. If they evade taxes and then breach the contract after tax season, you won't dare sue them easily. If the contract comes to light, they'll only face a lawsuit, but you'll have the IRS coming after you. Understand?"

Song Ya knew how dangerous the IRS could be. The most famous Chicago mob boss, Al Capone, had been taken down by the IRS. It was scarier than the FBI.

After thanking him once more, he left Goodman Law Firm.