noveldepot Chapter 8 Creativity is Worthless
Chapter 8 Creativity is Worthless
In the past few days, Zik has also kept in touch with the "dentist" who was driving the same car on the night of the robbery. He has subtly inquired about the gang's profit-sharing rules. Even the "owners" of the JFK airport area, the Poly Group boss and the Colombo family, only take 12.5% of each deal, which adds up to only 25%. Compared to the publisher's 50%, they are practically conscientious bosses.
He stood there, his heart filled with mixed emotions.
He thought he had found an easy way to make a fortune, but he ended up in a cycle of exploitation. But he had no way out; "YMCA" was his only hope. Even if he had to be exploited, he had to find a way to sell the song.
Leaving Washington Square Park, Zeke felt heavy-hearted. The mockery of the street band and the old shopkeeper's warning echoed in his mind: without a publisher, songs wouldn't sell; but with a publisher, he, the creator, would become an outsider.
"How will I know if I don't try?" he gritted his teeth, flipping through thick yellow pages at a public phone booth on the street.
Most music publishers are located between West 28th and West 40th Streets, in an area known as "Tinpan Alley," which is the heart of New York's music publishing industry.
Instead of directly contacting the major publishers that had failed in music magazines, Zeke copied down the addresses of several smaller independent publishers. He returned to the YMCA, tidied his hair, and changed into a decent jacket. The boy in the mirror looked tired and wary.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, Zeke stood in front of an old office building on West 33rd Street. The sign above the door read "Summit Music Publishing Company," the gold lettering mostly peeling off. He pushed open the glass door; the receptionist, a girl painting her nails, didn't even look up: "Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but I have a song..."
"Mr. Brian is in the second room on the right." The girl blew on her nails.
Zik knocked on the door, and a rough "Come in" came from inside. The office was filled with smoke, and a man in his fifties with thinning hair was smoking a cigar and looking down at some documents.
He looked up, his gaze sweeping over Zeke before settling on the papers in Zeke's hand.
"Young man, what can I do for you?" Brian had a husky voice.
"I wrote a song and wanted to see if I had a chance to write it."
"Sit down." Brian gestured to the chair opposite him, tapping his cigar on the rim of the ashtray. "What kind?"
"Disco, the really catchy kind." Zeke sat down and handed over the sheet music.
Brian took it, squinted at it for a few seconds, and asked, "Who wrote this sheet music for you?"
"Myself."
"You?" Brian looked up, this time giving Zeke a serious look. "Are you a music student?"
"I'm self-taught," Zik said honestly.
Brian chuckled and put down the sheet music. "Then sing it for me. I can't tell if it's good or bad just by looking at this."
Zik cleared his throat. He hummed the intro rhythm first, then the verse:
Young friend, do you feel lost?
I don't know where to go, the road ahead is long...
As he sang the chorus, the catchy melody filled the small office:
Y~M~C~A~
You can find everything you want here!
Y~M~C~A~
Brian's hand, holding a cigar, froze in mid-air. His eyes changed: that shrewd, assessing look, the kind of look Zeke had seen on the streets, the kind of look a petty thug appraising a stolen watch.
"Sing the chorus again," Brian said.
Zik sang it again. This time, Brian's fingers tapped lightly on the table, following the rhythm.
"That's interesting." Brian finally spoke, opening a drawer and taking out a document. "Young man, your song has potential. But you also know that potential doesn't equal value. We need to turn it into real value."
He pushed the documents towards him. Zik took them; the dense legal clauses made his head spin. But he grasped a few key terms: copyright transfer, exclusive perpetual agency, 50% royalty split.
"Do I need to explain?" Brian leaned back in his chair, exhaling a puff of smoke. "It's simple. You transfer the copyright of this song to us, and we're responsible for selling it, registering the copyright, and collecting the money. After it's sold, we split the royalties 50/50. You retain the attribution rights; it's written here."
Zik's fingers tightened, crumpling the edges of the paper: "What if I don't want to transfer the copyright?"
Brian laughed: "Then there's nothing to talk about. No publisher will manage an author's copyright without owning it. That's the industry rule."
"Can I take it back and think about it?" Zeke asked.
"Of course," Brian shrugged, but then added, "while you're considering it, other songwriters might come to me with similar songs. Disco is all the rage right now; I get dozens of songs every day."
This is typical pressure tactics. Zik sneered inwardly, but feigned hesitation: "What if I want to ask someone else?"
Brian's eyes turned cold. He was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly changed his tone: "Young man, you don't look like you have any money. How about this, I'll give you another option." He held up one finger, "A thousand dollars, a one-time buyout. You sign now, I'll write the check. Whether this song makes a million or loses everything, it's none of your business. Clean and simple."
Zik's mind raced with calculations. He'd received five hundred from the robbery that night, and with the tape's value, it was roughly a thousand.
A hit song that might be worth millions or tens of millions, only to sell for a thousand? Are you kidding me?
This is a song from the Apocalypse, how could I possibly lose money!
"If we go by revenue sharing, and assuming this song sells a million copies, how much would I get?"
Brian shook his head as if he'd heard a joke, took out a calculator from the drawer, and said while pressing keys, "How much a record sells has nothing to do with your machine copy royalties. The royalties a songwriter gets are a fixed 2 cents. One million copies would be $20,000. That $20,000 will go into our company's account first, we'll deduct 50%, and the remaining $10,000 is yours."
He looked up, the smoke from his cigar swirling between them. "And you'll have to wait for that ten thousand. Wait for the record to be made, for its release, for sales, for payment. It could be six months, it could be a year. But this thousand dollars..." He patted the checkbook on the table, "It's now, immediately, right now."
"Creativity is worthless, young people. What's valuable are channels and power. You have the creativity, I have the channels. That's reality."
Zik stood up: "I think we should forget about it."
"Mike." Brian's voice suddenly hardened.
The office door opened. A muscular man in a tight T-shirt walked in and stood silently by the door, blocking the exit. His arms were covered in tattoos, and he stared blankly at Zeke.
Brian pushed the contract forward again: "I think you can make a decision now. Sign it, take the money and go. Or..." He tilted his head, not finishing his sentence.