(Just joining us? Click here for the complete series.)
“So, are you going to observe one of Ethan’s bands’ sessions? Can I come with?” Sarah-Joe asks hopping up from the bench she’s sitting on. She must have been waiting for me to come out of the room.
I hadn’t really considered trying to observe one of Ethan’s bands. I had met two of the guys he works with, but didn’t know them very well. I had actually been considering seeing if I could observe one of Revolver’s sessions. I would need to be there a few times anyway to check in on the food, I wondered if they would mind if I just hung out.
“I don’t think anyone’s recording,” I say to Sarah-Joe. There is no way I was going to bring her with to one of Revolver’s sessions.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to observe some student who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Besides, it’s always good to network within the industry.”
“Yes, that’s why I intern,” I say, a little more sarcastically than I mean to. She doesn’t notice.
“Yeah, interning just isn’t my thing. I mean, if I’m going to work I’m going to get paid for it.”
Good luck with that. I start walking toward my next class, the opposite direction of where she needs to go.
“So you’ll ask Ethan then?”
I try to look at her without fully turning my head. Eye contact will only encourage her further, and I’ve got to get to my Record Company Operations class. Professor Heggelsburg is not nearly as understanding about my sleepiness in class as Professor Cunningham was this morning. To be fair, I have fallen fully asleep in Rec Ops twice though. It’s just a boring class. “Sure. I’ll let you know.” I make a mental note to tell her tonight that he said no.
“Addison, nice of you to join us,” Professor Heggelsburg says as he shuts the door behind me.
I feel my face get red as I slide into a desk toward the back of the room and glance at the clock. Even thought I’m a whole minute early, I am the last person to get to class. “I promise to give you your money’s worth in this class,” Professor Heggelsburg had told us the first day. “You are paying over $1000 for the three credits this course provides. I will start and end on time. I do not tolerate tardiness or people leaving early.” He wasn’t kidding either. The door is locked at exactly 10:30 every morning and unlocked at 12:00 on the dot.
Professor Heggelsburg is in his mid sixties and considered either an icon or a dinosaur of Nashville recording, depending on who you’re talking to. His credits include artists like Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers and he’s been involved in some pretty amazing music. He’s not shy about his opinion that women should use their looks and sexuality to advance their career whenever they can, and sometimes I wonder if he thinks that women can advance their careers without using sex. His slicked back hair and long handlebar mustache give me the creeps.
“Today we’re talking about contracts,” he says, standing at a podium in the corner of the room, clicking a tiny remote to advance the slides on the PowerPoint that is projected on the screen at the front of the room. He looks around. “How many of you are on the Technology track?” About half of the class raises their hands. “Oh, interesting. 50/50. This should be a good discussion then.” He flips to the next slide. The top says “Objectives” and underneath is two column titled “Artist” and “Label” divided by a thin line. “Take a moment to look over this list. We’re going to talk about both sides of the contract negotiation process. This is probably the only time you’ll ever hear both sides presented at the same time.” He chuckles to himself and I half expect him to snap his suspenders against his chest.
I skim the words on the screen, then look around the class. It is interesting that the class is so evenly divided between the Technology and Business tracks. All Music Business majors must choose to either concentrate on the Technology side of the business: recording, producing, engineering, the actual sound of the music, or the Business side of the business. Business track majors typically go into management or record label operations. Rec Ops and Recording Technology are both required courses no matter which track you’re in. You end up having most of your classes with students in your year and your track. It’s nice to be in a class with people I don’t know.
“The standard pieces of any recording contract are?” Professor Heggelsburg waits, looking around the room. We sit, fingers poised over keyboards, ready to take notes while he continues to challenge anyone to dare to try to answer. “Advance, Royalty Rate, Territory and Options. Most labels now also include provisions on online product sales, touring income, and synchs. Now let’s look at each of these.” He flips to the next slide and begins to drone about the boring details of contracts. He does a good job of presenting the considerations that each side needs to make, but we all know that signing with a “major” label means that they get to call most of the shots. On the flip side, the money they invest is the best chance any artist will get at super-stardom.
I consider Revolver’s situation. They’ve been at the same label since their first record. I don’t know how much of an advance they received then, or for any of the rest of their albums, but I do know that Simon has been very vocal lately about his dislike of label operations. He told one reporter that “The fat men that sit behind the desks all day have no idea what goes in to making good music. All they know how to do is pay off their cronies. You have to have a major label deal because that’s the only way to get into their little club. But we’re breaking out of it.” I wonder if those comments have anything to do with the negotiations that they’re in now.
“The label has a set number of “Options” written into a contract. This means that they have the option of saying whether or not they want the next record from the band.”
A guy in a dark blue sweatshirt in the back of the room raises his hand. “What if the band doesn’t want to work with the label anymore?”
Heggelsburg laughs. “Well, unless they’re recouped, they don’t really have a choice. Who can tell me what recoupment is?”
No one raises their hand, even though we all know it.
“Addison? Can you share with the class what recoupment is?”
I look around, hoping he’s talking to someone else. I feel my face get red. “It’s when the artist has earned enough money for the label that they’ve paid back all of the expenses.” I immediately look back down at my computer. I hate being put on the spot like that.
“Correct! And how long does that usually take for a normal artists?” Again, no response from the class. “Let me rephrase. How often does that happen for a normal artist, over the course of their career?” Still, silence. Professor Heggelsburg looks from one student to the next, like he’s building dramatic tension. “NEVER!” he booms. I jump. He notices and laughs. “Is this shocking to you Addison?”
“No,” I croak, barely audible.
“Good. Tell me about cross-collateralization.”
He flips to his next slide and waits for me. I don’t know what I did to cause so much teacher attention today.
“It’s when the profits from one project are used to recoup the costs of another.”
“Very good. And how often does this happen?”
“All the time.”
“Correct. It’s standard in any label agreement. If they pick up the option, there will be cross collateralization.”
“It sucks,” the guy in the blue sweatshirt says. Professor Heggelsburg looks up.
“Excuse me?”
“It sucks. It’s not fair to the artist.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The deals are always structured for the label. It’s like the artists have become indentured servants.”
Oh geez I think, and stare at the door. I wonder if I could get it unlocked and out without being noticed. Professor Heggelsburg has moved towards Blue Sweatshirt in the back of the room. His walk is slow and deliberate, and I know what’s coming. He is famous for his ability to argue why the labels are within their rights to operate the way that they do. Literally famous. He’s been on CNN more than once to comment on lawsuits that bands try to bring against the labels.
“Tell me more,” he says to Blue Sweatshirt.
Shut up I telegraph. He doesn’t get it. He launches into a long diatribe about how labels are big corporations that have all of these protections and they shouldn’t be allowed to operate the way that they do. Professor Heggelsburg answers him point by point, and soon blue sweatshirt is fuming the back and of the room and Heggelsburg has forgotten what the point of today’s lecture is.
“What if,” I say, raising my hand, “the band records their new album without telling the label?”
“They can’t. Who’s going to pay for the studio, the producer, engineers, musicians?”
“Let’s just say they can afford it themselves. Can they record without telling anyone?”
“That’s an interesting question. Class?”
“If the label hasn’t exercises the option yet, they can do whatever they want.”
“Wait, are they still under contract? Is the label still working on the last record?”
“Does the label have options to exercise?”
The questions are coming too fast for me to answer without giving away details. Everyone is staring at me, and I kick myself. Why did I even bring this up?
“This is, uh, a hypothetical situation. So, um, yes, the label has options. The band is still touring for the last record.”
“Are they recording on their own? I think it’s different if they’re just doing some stuff on their computer rather than in a studio.”
A debate over whether a recording is less valid if it’s done in a bedroom versus in a studio ensues, and the attention gets turned away from me. I know I don’t know all of the details of Revolver’s situation. I’m not sure whether or not I think what they’re doing is wrong or not. On the surface, it seems shady. But, even so…
by Sylvia Plath. Through Ester Greenwood Plath takes you inside the head of someone who is literally going crazy.
