Tristan’s face was like stone, but I didn’t think he was happy with the question. “Didn’t you guys get your royalty statements in January?”
“Yeah, we did,” Zack said—but I still hadn’t sorted through the pile of mail sitting on my dresser. I’d assumed it was all junk mail. And if they’d sent it by email, I must have missed it. “And it shows that we’re making money but there’s still a lot of unrecouped costs. That was from last year. What about now?”
“I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head.” I wasn’t good at this, but I was pretty damn sure he was lying. I bet he’dchecked all our numbers before this call and I would have wagered that he knew down to the penny how the band was faring. Why else would he be pushing us to make our next album so soon? “But you’ll get your next statement in July.”
“But here’s the problem,” Zack said, bristling. I could feel his angry energy through my laptop. “You want us to get our passports—but how the fuck are we supposed to do that when we don’t have any fucking money?”
“Hey, Zack—no need to be hostile. I understand your frustration.” No, he didn’t—but he kept talking anyway. “Here’s the bottom line—I know the second and third legs of the tour were profitable and the album is finally charting. I also know you sold a fair amount of merch. You’re in a really good spot and, once we’ve recouped all the upfront costs, your royalties will start rolling in. And a second album will go a long way toward getting you there.”
“Yeah, but we gotta fuckin’ eat before then, and I don’t want to go back to washing dishes just to do that. The only option I see is us doing a mini tour at some of the places we used to play in Denver just to pay some bills.”
“Hold up,” Tristan said, his voice taking on an edge we hadn’t yet heard. “That would be in breach of your contract.” He kept talking but I tuned out for just a moment as I realized they had us by our figurative balls—and our situation reminded me of an old song my grandpa used to play on vinyl. I’d been maybe ten years old when I asked a bunch of questions about “Sixteen Tons” sung by Tennessee Ernie Ford and the horrible idea of someone working and yet being in more debt every day.
That was how this felt…our dream that had become a nightmare.
Then all the stories I’d read and heard about musical artists who’d complained about the music industry—like Korn withtheir song “Y’all Want a Single,” Motörhead’s “Fools,” snippets of Mudayne’s “Dig,” and so many more—came crashing into my consciousness. If the big guns, the rock artists at the top of the charts, had complaints about the system, how would a little band like us fare?
There wasn’t a goddamned thing we could do. And Zack voiced it best.
“This is fucked.”
“Look—would it help if we offered an advance to you guys? Say $25,000 that you could split as living expenses before the next album?”
Zack all but snarled. “You gotta recoup that too, though, right?”
“Yes. But you’re on the right track, and I’m positive a second album would put you over the top.”
“As in being profitable? Profitable enough that we actually made some cash?”
“Exactly.”
Zack said, “Okay, then shorten that timeline. We’ll get that album to you sooner.”
Tristan’s eyes lit up; even through the computer screen, I could swear I saw dollar signs in them. “Fantastic. Keep us posted so we can book a studio.”
Before Zack could speak again, Cy said, “Hold up a second.”
“We’ll talk offline,” Zack said, the growl back in his voice. “But I’ll tell you the studio to book when the time comes. In the meantime, how do I get in touch with you?”
“Through Chad.”
The meeting ended abruptly after that and, before I’d even shut off my laptop, Zack was calling me.
I didnotwant to talk to him—but I knew it would be a business call and I couldn’t keep ignoring him. “What?”
“Can you come to my place? Cy an’ Bray are here…and we need to discuss the next steps for the band. We can make decisions for you, but I’d rather you be part of it.”
How could I ignore that? Except…I didn’t want to drive all the way to Dalton in the accumulating snow. “My tires are bald. There’s no way I could make it there.”
Braden’s voice came over the line. “I could come get you.”
“No, that’s ridiculous. Why can’t we meet over Zoom again?” In the short pause, I sensed Zack was trying to put up some outlandish argument—and why? I didn’t need to be face to face with him to talk. So I said, “Why can’t we meet now? You already have me on the phone.”
I could hear the frustration in his voice but he said, “Fine. You’re willing to meet over Zoom?”
And that meeting was how we decided we’d start practicing the new songs on the following Monday so we could at least have close to a week off before grinding again.
That evening, though, as I sat on the couch with my mom watching a rom com I’d never seen before, I sent a group text to Braden and Cy.I’m okay with working on the next album, but when are we going to talk to Zack about rehab? He can’t keep going on like this.
