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I tap a finger on the table. “I know your reputation, and you just confirmed it.”
Her lips tighten.
Before she gets the wrong idea, I continue. “You’re honest, persistent, and you treat your artists with fairness and consideration,” I add.
Her shoulders relax a smidge, barely noticeable if I wasn’t so tuned in to her every movement.
“We can go over the contract now, and then if you want to have a lawyer or someone else look it over before you make a decision, that’s perfectly acceptable. However, I do ask to have an answer in a week. If you pass, I need to start exploring other options.”
“That sounds fair enough.”
She nods and pulls out another bundle of paperwork from her briefcase. “I have a copy here, so you can take that one with you. I also have some questions for you, and I’m sure you’ll have some for me.” She takes a breath, shuffling the papers and getting them in order before continuing. “How many songs do you have ready for development?”
I think about the answer, shuffling a list in my mind, the notes running through my head. “Twenty in a notebook, another ten in my head, most in various stages of completion.”
She purses her lips. “We can work with that.”
“It’s been difficult to create since I’ve been in the city.”
A lame excuse but the truth.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Nearly a year.” I shuffle the paper in my hand, trying to focus on the words on the page. There are sections for costs, dates and location of the recording sessions, licensing, distribution, copyright, royalty rate, among others.
“This is a better rate than industry standard.” I point at the percentage on the page. Most artists get about 13%-16% royalties. This shows 30%. Even big artists with established fan bases don’t get more than 18%.
“We’re both taking a risk here, and I wanted the contract to reflect that. You’ll notice there’s no sign-on money. I don’t have the capital for that, so instead I’m offering a higher rate on accrued royalties. I will take care of all production costs, including room and board while we’re in development. In addition, you’ll see in Subsection E, the type of music recorded, the artistic vision for your album will be a mutual decision.”
Another surprise. Most labels offer limited creative control to their artists.
I read through the section that outlines our production schedule. “We’re not recording in the city?”
She shakes her head. “We’re going to my family’s property, the one I told you about earlier.”
I reach back into my mind and pluck out the name. “Whitby.”
“Yes. It’s quiet and remote.”
“Even with the kids camp?”
“No kids, at least not yet. They completed construction recently and they’ll be running a short winter camp, but that’s not for a couple months. I have top-of-the-line equipment being delivered to Whitby by the end of this week and a producer confirmed for about three weeks from now.”
I digest that information and then offer, “I have some recording equipment, but it’s midgrade.”
“Bring it. It’s always good to have backup.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes while I peruse the document, trying to absorb everything on the page. Every few seconds, I lose focus and have to reread.
I’m intensely aware of Mindy’s regard. Not that she’s staring at me like a creep or anything. She’s sipping her coffee, making notations on her copy of the contract, but there’s something about her that captivates me. It’s like an invisible string wrapped around my midsection, tugging with an almost delicate pressure and yet strong as a steel chain.
On page four, one of the bolded headings snags my attention:Public Performances.
My gut clenches. The anxiety that had been ebbing away as our conversation progressed spikes through the ceiling.
I knew singing in front of people would be inevitable, and yet I’ve managed to mostly avoid it for the past year. I want to be a songwriter. I want people to listen to my songs and hire me to write—not sing.
Mindy is the only person who’s even cared enough to listen.
