“That’s how I’m getting by these days,” Phil confirmed. “It’s thin pickings at times, I won’t lie about that. The royalty checks from KVA and the money I banked recording with you the first time are what is keeping my head above water most months.”
“Would you be able to commit to being our baritone backup singer once we get to the studio?” Jake asked him. “That won’t be for a few months at least, of course. We can work the tunes up without you but we would need you for the recording process.”
Phil swallowed. “Uh ... well...” He looked at his bandmates for a moment and then back at Jake. “The truth of the matter is ... uh...” He faded out.
“What is the truth of the matter, Phil?” Pauline asked him.
Ben answered for him. “I said that work scheduling was one of the reasons we can’t do it,” he said. “The other is that ... well ... we’re kind of committed to making Lighthouse into a success. We all think we’re making a lot of progress with that. That’s why we were excited to have you come see us.”
“Yeah,” said Ted. “We wanted to show you what we got.”
“You showed us what you have,” Celia said. “And we were impressed.”
“That was our goal,” Ben said. “To impress you and hopefully have you manage us, Pauline.”
“Even if I did manage you,” Pauline said, “and was able to secure a recording contract for you, wouldn’t the work issue still be there? Wouldn’t you still have a baby at home, Ben? Wouldn’t you still have to quit or drop to part-time, Ted?”
“Yes, of course,” said Ben, “but then we’d be getting paid by whatever record company you got us signed with. We would have permanent income to replace our job income and not just a temporary influx of money that is going to end at some point.”
“And actually, we were really hoping that KVA would be the label to sign us,” Ted said. “You guys are badass.”
“Thank you,” Pauline said, “but, unfortunately, there are several things wrong with that scenario. In the first place, KVA is not financially in a position to sign any other acts to the label. It costs about a million and a half or so to get an album into production. We would have to lay out that money in advance, long before any revenue came in from the album itself. With Jake and Celia, we know they’re going to sell enough to cover that and produce profit. With Lighthouse however ... well ... I don’t quite know how to say this, but ... you’re an unknown variable, especially at this point in your evolution. We have no idea if your music is marketable. And even if it is, you would have to tour to promote it, something KVA really can’t afford to finance. We simply cannot risk the unknown like that.”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “We have a Japanese accountant and a certain character actor who would ream our asses out if we even considered such a thing.”
They all nodded solemnly at this, but they weren’t giving up quite yet. “What about another label?” asked Ben. “You could still manage us, Pauline, and maybe get us signed to one of the other record labels, couldn’t you?”
She was shaking her head. “I’m sorry guys, but it just won’t work. I’m not a highly connected music manager in the industry. I have some connections, of course, but I’m not well thought of. The best I could ever hope for would be to get someone to at least listen to a demo tape of you, but even if they agreed to sign you, they would push one of those first-time contracts on you. Jake has told you about those contracts, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Ben said slowly. “He did talk about the Intemperance contract a few times.”
“It’s a contract that virtually guarantees you will not make any actual money,” Jake said. “To put it kindly, you would be signing on to get raped in the ass with a sandpaper dildo.”
“Without sufficient lubrication on said artificial phallus,” put in Nerdly.
“And I absolutely will not have any part of signing anyone to a contract such as that,” Pauline said. “I would be the most awful hypocrite if I did, and I would not be able to look at myself in the mirror.”
“But couldn’t you negotiate us something better?” asked Ted. “You know, at least something like the second contract between Intemperance and National?”
“Hey now,” Jake said seriously. “No one ever said there was a second contract between Intemperance and National. That is nothing but speculation.”
“That’s right,” Pauline said. “But let’s talk theoretically for a moment here. If there was a second Intemperance contract—something that made sure the band at least made money for their efforts and removed the sandpaper from the dildo and allowed a little lube to be in place—there is no way in hell that any major label would agree to such a thing for an unknown band represented by me. It just wouldn’t fly. They wouldn’t even listen to me about it. I would quite literally be laughed out of any exec’s office for even suggesting such a thing.”
Lenny spoke up for the first time. “You don’t seem to be very confident in your abilities as a band manager,” he said.
She turned and locked eyes onto him. “I am an outstanding band manager,” she said, “and I have every confidence in my abilities. Part of what makes me effective in this role is my self-honesty. I am not blowing smoke up your ass, my friend. I do not do that. I am giving you a completely realistic assessment of that which you are proposing. The music industry is a brutal game with no clear set of rules. Unknown bands are chewed up and spit out by the industry on a daily basis—and those are the few that are even lucky enough to make it into the mouth to be chewed on. There is no way in hell that the four of you are going to be able to walk into any kind of profitable recording contract right now. Your odds of even getting screwed are pretty steep at this point. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but that is the situation as I see it.”
“Damn,” Ted said, shaking his head. “What a bummer.”
“It is a bummer,” Jake had to agree. “It took us almost three years and two best selling albums just to get in a position where we could even think of negotiating with those fucks. And even after that, it was like pulling teeth for every step forward.”
“So ... you’re rejecting us then?” Lennie asked Pauline. “You won’t manage us?”
“I simply can’t be a part of even trying to set you up for exploitation,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wish it was otherwise.”
“How about if you just agreed to manage us for the club scene then?” asked Phil.
“How’s that?” Pauline asked.
“I still think you can help us,” Phil said. “Leave the recording contracts out of it. How about if you sign up to manage us and just use your influence to get us gigs in the clubs here in So-Cal?”
She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I don’t have any connections in the clubs,” she said.
“You wouldn’t really have to,” Phil said. “We got this gig here today simply because we were part of Jake and Celia’s band on their album. If you just called up some of the more exclusive clubs in the region and told them you were Jake and Celia’s manager and were now representing us, they would probably at least give us auditions. I think we’re good enough that they would accept us if they heard us. We would pay your standard rate, of course.”
“Of course,” she said slowly. “And tell me, what did they pay you for this gig?”
“Uh ... well ... three hundred dollars,” Phil said.
“Three hundred dollars,” Pauline said. “My standard rate is twenty percent. So, let’s say I could get you gigs at other clubs for similar compensation. That means I would be making sixty dollars a gig, right?”