CHAPTER ELEVEN
In mid-August, an exhausted but triumphant Bobby returned home and immediately went to bed. When he awoke, he found Allison sitting in the living room with a book.
She said, “Hey there, sleepyhead.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two-and-a-half days.”
“Jesus! Guess I really was tired.”
“Hey, it stands to reason. After all, you’ve been a go-getter from day one.”
“Huh?”
“And you taught yourself to play the guitar when you were just five.”
“Are you stoned?”
“No, I’m reading.” Allison held up her book, The Secret of Bobby Dreamland.
“Oh, that. Yeah, Mr. Stronzo said something to me about a book.”
“I gotta say, it’s damned eye-opening. I’ve been your sister for fourteen years and I never knew any of this stuff. How come you never told me for your sixth-grade science project, you split an atom?”
Bobby’s eyebrows arched. “It doesn’t say that!”
“No, but it might as well.”
“Can I see that book?”
“Sure. Be careful, though. It’ll be highly collectible someday – you know, when you’re a has-been.”
“Allie, please.” As Bobby looked through the book, his face became a mask of despair. “This is a bunch of lies! I never did any of this stuff. Boy, Mr. Stronzo wasn’t kidding.”
“What about?”
“He said Bobby Dreamland is a fictional character he created, and I’m just the guy who plays him.” Bobby looked at the photo of his smiling face that adorned the book’s cover. “I’m lying to my fans.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault. You’re just following orders, like a good little Nazi.”
“Will you give me a break? I feel lousy enough.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Allison got up from the chair and took her brother in her arms. Bobby closed his eyes and basked in his sister’s embrace.
“Now, that’s what a mom likes to see!”
The surprised siblings turned to see Maria standing in the doorway.
“How’s my boy?” she said.
“Wide awake now. And I’m sure glad to be home.”
“We’re glad to have you back, too. Give Dominic a call, though. We gotta go pick up your royalty check.”
“Can’t he just mail it to us?”
“He offered to, but I wanna pick it up myself. So give him a call, ha?”
They went to Stronzo’s office that afternoon. When Bobby and Maria signed the papers, an uncomfortable-looking Stronzo handed Bobby a number ten envelope. He tore it open and looked at the check.
Then Bobby’s face fell.
“What’s wrong?” said his mother.
“It’s only for twenty-three cents.”
“What?” Maria grabbed the check from Bobby and gaped at the amount. Glaring at Stronzo, “Is this some kinda joke? Where’s the real check?”
“Please, calm down,” said Stronzo.
“Calm down? You give my son a check for twenty-three cents, and you tell me to calm down?”
“I’ve attached the royalty statement. It details every deduction.”
“But the check’s only for twenty-three cents! What the hell kinda deductions did you make?”
“Remember the advance Cloaca gave Bobby? That came out of his royalties. So did my commission, the producer’s royalties, the publishing fees, and a lot of other things. It’s all detailed in the royalty statement.”
“OK, OK, but god almighty… You know when Bobby got home from that goddamned tour, he slept for two-and-a-half days?”
“He worked hard on that tour. He had every right to sleep.” Stronzo gave Bobby his patented “fatherly” look. “Don’t you worry. You’ll get used to touring.”
Maria exhaled noisily. “You’re missing the point, Stronzo. Bobby’s got a hit album, two singles in the top ten, two appearances on ‘Kenny Kendall,’ and a thirty-town tour, and all he gets from it is a lousy twenty-three cents?”
“It’s all in the royalty statement,” Stronzo repeated. “I’d be happy to go over it with you.”
“Fine,” said Maria. “Let’s go over it.”
“Unfortunately, I have an appointment right now, but do talk to my secretary. She’ll be happy to schedule an appointment for you.”
Stronzo put on his hat and coat and darted out of the office, leaving behind a shell-shocked Bobby and Maria.
“Twenty-three cents?” Allison laughed out loud. “And I thought supermarket pay was low!”
Through clenched teeth, Maria said, “This ain’t funny, young lady.”
“I think it is. Hell, it’s the funniest damned thing I’ve heard all week. Let’s go out to dinner on little brother’s twenty-three cents. Maybe McDonald’s is having a special.”
When she was alone, however, Alison called Skip Mitchell to explain the situation. “Granted, you’re not a lawyer, but I thought you might know something about the business side of this shit.”
“Well, I know how to figure out my own royalties. Tell you what, though. Can you show me Bobby’s contract?”
“I suppose. Why?”
“A buddy of mine from Memphis is flying in on business in a couple of days. I’m having lunch with him. He’s a music biz lawyer, name of Fred Markowitz. I’ll show him the contract and see what he thinks.”
As Markowitz read Bobby’s contract, he frequently shook his head and chuckled without humor. Finally, he looked up at Mitchell.
“I’ve seen some manager-friendly contracts on my time, but this takes the cake.” Markowitz spent a half-hour explaining what he meant.
When he finished, Mitchell asked, “Would you come to the Leonettis’ and tell ‘em what you told me? Maybe I can wangle us a dinner invite.”
The next evening, Markowitz savored a homemade lasagna dinner at the Leonettis’. Afterward, they sat in the living room as he explained Bobby’s contract.
“The standard commission for a personal manager is ten per cent. Stronzo’s is fifty per cent.”
A collective gasp filled the room.
“And that’s just for starters,” Markowitz warned his audience. “Bobby’s contract also has what we call a double commission clause.”
“That don’t sound good,” said Vince.
“It’s not. Let’s say Bobby gets big enough that Stronzo decides, for tax reasons, to make him a corporation.”
“Yeah,” Bobby exclaimed, “let’s say that.”
“With the double commission clause, Stronzo gets a percentage not only of the corporation’s profits, but of Bobby’s personal salary as well.”
Maria said, “That don’t seem fair.”
“No ethical manager would ever do that, but we’re talking about Dominic Stronzo.” Markowitz took a sip of water. “What’s best for the artist is if the manager’s commission comes out of his earnings, and not the gross. Of course, that’s now how Stronzo set it up. He takes his fifty per cent before deducting all the expenses. Bobby, what’s the length of your contract?”
“Two years.” His eyes narrowed. “It is two years, right?”
“Technically, yes. Once the contract is up, Stronzo can drop you if you’re no longer hot. But if you’re still making money, he can renew your contract for two more years, on the same terms. And you’ll be in no position to turn him down. There’s a lot more I could go into, but I think you get the idea.”
Alison said, “Sure, if the idea is that my brother’s getting fucked.”
Markowitz ignored that. ”Let’s move on to royalty computation. Bobby’s royalty rate is ten per cent of the suggested retail list price; that’s the industry standard. Keep in mind, though, we’re talking about the suggested retail list, not necessarily what the record shop down the street is charging for Bobby’s album.
“Currently, the SLRP of an album is $4.98. For simplicity’s sake, I’ll round it off to five dollars. From that price, Cloaca first deducts what’s known as a packaging charge. The industry feels an artist should get paid only for the record itself, not the packaging it comes in.”
Bobby shrugged. “Sounds fair.”
“Yes, it sounds fair, but I’ve yet to find a label that doesn’t take out a whole lot more than what it really costs to package an album. In Cloaca’s case, they deducted twenty per cent for packaging. In reality, it costs about eight cents to manufacture an LP.”
Maria gasped. “Eight cents?”
Alison said, “Hey, Bobby…. With that royalty check, you could press damned near three albums.”
“Shut up, you,” said her mother.
Markowitz cleared his throat. “After they deduct for the packaging, what’s left is what they call the base price. Let’s say that some girl picks up Bobby’s album for five dollars. Before Cloaca gives him a cent on it, they deduct twenty per cent, or one dollar, for packaging. That gives us a base rate of four dollars, which gives Bobby forty cents an album.”
“That’s still not bad,” said Maria.
“Don’t say that yet; there’s a lot more ground to cover.” Markowitz heaved a sigh. “I always feel like Tom Lehrer explaining the New Math when I do this.”
Only Allison knew what that referred to.
Markowitz continued, “If a label sells a retailer one hundred albums for eighty-five cents, it’s the same as selling them eighty-five albums at a dollar each. Either way, the label gets eighty-five dollars. At some point, though, the industry came up with what we call ‘free goods.’ What that means is, the labels jacked up the wholesale price from eighty-five cents to a dollar. They sold eighty-five albums to the retailers for a dollar apiece, and then threw in fifteen additional records free of charge. Why? Because then, a label has to pay the artist for only eighty-five albums, and not a hundred. After all, the artist has no right to ask for royalties on records that his label wasn’t paid for. And remember, the
artist won’t get any more money if the label jacks up the wholesale price, because royalties are based on the retail price.”
Vince scratched his head. “But either way, the record company’s getting the same money.”
“That’s beauty part, Vince; for the company, at least. So, we’ve already deducted a one-dollar packaging charge. Let’s subtract another fifteen per cent, or seventy-five cents, for the free goods. That brings us down to $2.35 against which to calculate Bobby’s royalties. Next, we’ll cover what’s called reserves.”
The room was silent.
“Records are sold on a one hundred per cent return privilege. That means if a retailer buys a hundred of Bobby’s album and they don’t sell, he gets to return them and receive either a full refund or credit toward his next order. That gives the label an excuse to deduct even more from the royalty rate. In Bobby’s case, the reserve rate is thirty-five per cent.”
“Why so goddamned high?” said Allison.
“Because Bobby was a new, unproven artist. But with his records being hot, the reserve rate for his next album will be a lot less. I guarantee it.”
Markowitz sat on the couch between Vince and Maria. “Let’s say Cloaca ships 100,000 copies of Bobby’s album. At a thirty-five per cent reserve rate, they only have to pay him on 65,000 of the records, and then wait to see if the others sell. If they do, Bobby gets his money — eventually.”
“What’s eventually?” Bobby wanted to know.
“Within two to four years.”
Alison snorted. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Markowitz chuckled. “It’s a great business, isn’t it?”
“More like a racket,” said Allison.
“So now, we subtract an additional thirty-five per cent, or $1.75, from Bobby’s royalty rate. We’re now down to $1.50, which gives Bobby fifteen cent an album.”
The Leonettis said nothing. Finally, Vince broke the silence. “Is that all?”
“Actually, no.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Sorry, Vince, but you wanted me to explain Bobby’s contract.”
“Oh, I ain’t blaming you, Fred.”
“And I appreciate it. Besides, there’s only one more thing to cover. It’s called ninety per cent of net sales.”
“Or,” said Alison, “another way to fuck my brother out of his money.”
“True, but ‘ninety per cent of net sales’ sounds more official. Anyway, this whole concept came along when records were made of shellac and quite breakable. The labels decided to pay an artist for only ninety per cent of a shipment, allowing ten per cent for breakage — which was fair at the time.
“But it’s been well over thirty years since records were made of shellac. Try breaking an LP or a forty-five; it’s awfully difficult. But the industry still deducts ten per cent for breakage. And Bobby doesn’t get paid for ninety per cent of the whole shipment. Remember free goods? Bobby gets ninety per cent of eighty-five per cent, or sixty-seven-and—a-half per cent of each shipment.
“When all is said and done, Bobby’s lucky to get ten cents an album. With record industry logic, a dime is ten per cent of five dollars.
“Y’all look worried; don’t be. If Bobby’s records keep selling, he’ll make out fine. But as you can see, an artist has to sell a whole lot of records before he gets rich.”
“So, where does that leave me now?” said Bobby.
His sister provided the answer. “With a twenty-three cent royalty check.”