by Garrett Sawyer

This is a satire of the Frank Capra classic "It's a Wonderful Life" with the hero played by a musician. I've done it in first person so that the reader (our artists) are "projected" into the role of the narrator. The theme is obvious: signing a contract with a major recording company is fraught with danger and one would be better off going it alone through an independent network like CMC.

Just in passing I want you to know that I truly believe in this theme; this is not just a piece of propaganda I composed like a hired assassin. For a long time I was puzzled by stories I would hear in the media about groups or artists who had chart hits yet who were nonetheless inexplicably broke. After reading some of the sources I used for this satire I'm no longer surprised.

A word about my sources. The most important one by far is the Fredric Dannen book, "Hit men". If you haven't read this yet I strongly recommend it. If you have then you understand readily why I wrote my satire the way I did. The rest of my sources are various things that I've heard or read about the music business. The story about being sent to the midwest in the middle of winter is true.

The part about a record company stealing songs that aren't copyrighted is from a personal source. Though I can't name him or the tune that was stolen from him it is a fact that he once sent in a demo to one of the big labels. He heard nothing from them but was shocked a while later to find his song had been given to a group whose name you would recognize. It went on to become a Billboard top ten hit. Needless to say, my friend told me that on the record credits someone he had never heard of was listed as the writer of the song.

The part about the costs covered by recoupability came from an article in Keyboard magazine. In Dannen's book recoupability is described in even more graphic and abusive detail. The part about an industry executive tantrum is fictional but after reading "Hit men" it would seem par for the course. This kind of thing apparently happened all the time.

IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE (THE MUSICAL)

Nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Hamlet, Act II, Scene 3

SCENE 1, Inside a coffeehouse.

It's very late. The last patron has gone home. You're all alone, wearily packing up your equipment after your most recent gig. This is your nth coffehouse and merely the smell of fresh roasted is beginning to make you retch.

Here's how the chord is strummed. You've been dreaming of getting the "big break" ever since you first picked up a guitar. You know you're not Mozart but you feel strongly that you're better than the manure you hear coming out of A.M. radio. So you set out in search of fame and fortune.

Unfortunately, the results have turned out slightly different. You sell copies of your home studio-produced records directly to the public and through CMC. You own the copyright to all your songs but nobody wants them except you. You have a publishing company and it's affiliated with one of the big royalty collection companies but you don't get much in the way of royalty checks. To you these are just stepping stones to bigger and better things. You never gave up your search for that crack in the door to a major recording contract but you feel you've been beating your head against the wall for too long, and not because it feels so good when it stops. You feel stuck with small gigs and meager sales.

Until tonight.

You thought you were alone in the place when you notice a grandfatherly old man wearing a tweed coat, sitting at the bar. He has white hair and a gentle weatherbeaten face. He sits down at the table next to the stage and watches you as you continue packing up your synth. Unfazed, he eyes you fixedly until it becomes clear you won't get rid of him by ignoring him.

He calls you by name.

"Hi, dad," you respond, "I didn't notice you come in"

"I'm not surprised. I didn't use the door."

Whatever he's smoking you decide you'd like some of it. "So, how do you know my name? FBI? IRS? Radical Moslem extremists?"

The old man brushes aside the sarcasm. "I have to know your name. That's my job."

"And what may that be, pray tell?"

"You were pretty close there when you mentioned praying. I'm your guardian angel."

At this point you realize that this guy is definitely experimenting with something not normally found in the Physician's Desk Reference. And from that last statement you decide that whatever it is he's using it's pretty potent.

"My what?"

With a perfect poker face whitehair replies, "You heard me. Your guardian angel."

The jokes over. "Excuse me, but I think some of your strings are untuned.

"No, I'm serious. I was sent here to look after you. I'm not going to get my wings unless I can help someone feel better about their life. From the looks of it, you seem pretty dissatisfied with the way things are going with yours."

You try humoring the guy. "Oh, yeah? And how do you propose to help me feel better about my life?"

"By giving you what you want, of course."

"And what do I want?"

"The BIG BREAK."

This catches your attention. This guy looks like a Jerry Garcia reject. But somehow he's right on target about the BIG BREAK being what you wanted. A mind reader, perhaps?

Yet, you still don't totally buy this guy. "OK, so give it to me".

"Well, that's the problem. I'm not sure you really want it. Lot's of people want all kinds of things, some of them realistic, some of them pretty inappropriate. Just because you desire something doesn't mean that it's going to fulfill your expectations. In fact, you might be pretty disappointed, maybe even outright shocked. Some people I've tried to help end up realizing that they ought to have been running, not walking, in the other direction."

You decide this guy's definitely not strumming all of his chords, but you're too tired to do anything but humor him. "Fine. Then I'll be surprised."

The old man pauses a moment to consider, then slowly nods his head. "OK. You asked for it." He snaps his fingers. "But just remember that what you say you want and what you really want can often be two distinctly different things. Also there's a catch. You can't have two realities at the same time so I'm going to have to get rid of this one. That mean's no more CMC or Ron Wallace."

You're a little burnt out for Philosophy 101 at this moment so you give in. "Thanks, dad. I appreciate the help. By the way, I didn't catch your name."

He flashes a smile. "Clarence." And with that he suddenly vanishes.

For a moment his magic trick catches you off guard. Then you shrug and finish packing up, all the while thinking about how you're going to rustle up enough work to keep your head above water, how to promote your latest demo, maybe contacting that band that said it needed a keyboardist/songwriter.

Just for a moment you think about the old man. A fragment of memory surfaces. Wasn't there something like this in a movie once? Nahhhhhh!

SCENE II, Inside your studio apartment, that same evening.

At first you couldn't believe your ears. You had to replay the message machine at least twice before it would register. But there it was!

"My name is Fancy McDougal. I'm with the Artists and Repertoire division of Ripemoff Records and I'm calling to let you know that we'd like to have a chat with you about some of your songs. We think they might have potential. So if you can give me a call back at 555-4444 we can set up an appointment..."

Finally! After all these years of struggle, poverty and frustration! Ah, you can see it now! Fame! Fortune! The cover of the Rolling Stone! Sleep will prove impossible. The neighbors will just have to put up with your shrieks of joy.

It must have been nearly 4 o'clock in the morning before the fatigue of your body finally overcomes the ecstasy of your mind. Just before you drop into the sleep of the righteous there's a final random note at the back of your mind.

The old man at the cafe.

How could he have known? You don't believe in coincidence or ESP so how...?

SCENE 3, Inside the offices of Ripemoff records, three days later

Cosmic, dude.

This whole experience is (genuinely) totally awesome. The jaguars and the Rolls Royces in the parking lot. The exquisitely decorated entry hall. A stunning receptionist working the telephones at the marble reception desk. The elevator that smells like the inside of Niemann-Marcus.

And then the offices. So that's what a gold record really looks like! And Christ, but they've got so many of them! You envision yours next to theirs. Hold your horses, boy. You haven't even had lunch with them yet.

McDougal's secretary hangs up the phone and announces pleasantly, "Mr. McDougal will see you now."

This is the moment you've been waiting for. You want to remember every detail of the corridor, the door, the office...

You round the corner and there's McDougal, sitting at his desk talking on the phone. Everything about him is expensive. From the meticulously groomed hair past the gold on both hands through the polished manicure right on down to the alligator shoes this guy is totally ostentatious. There's a youngish looking fellow to McDougal's left in a gray business suit, holding several folders. He looks like a runner-up to the allugly hall of fame, sort of like Godzilla with flowing blond hair.

McDougal hangs up the phone and after a few pleasantries about the weather comes right to the point. "Son, we've been listening to that demo of yours real carefully and we think you have sales potential. We'd like you to make records with us. Here's your contract." He nods to Godzilla who opens a folder with your name penciled at the top. He hands you a thick sheaf of very official looking papers in triplicate.

Elation. With one tiny little fly in the ointment. "Uh, do you mind if I look it over?"

Smiles. "No problem. Take all the time you want." He begins to examine the contents of a file folder in front of him.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. At first you think its the sound of McDougal's pen on some paper but then you realize its the sound of a warning coming from the reverb in your cerebrum. "Uh, sir, what I meant was, do you mind if I take it home and look at it for a day or two? I could mail it back to you."

McDougal puts the pen down and stares at you as if you were a donkey that just brayed. His response is a mixture of wry sarcasm and disbelief. "What's the matter? Don't you trust us?"

"Well, yes, but..."

A sigh. "All right. Look, that's the standard contract we give to all our new artists. If you went to any other record company you wouldn't get any different. In fact, we think our contract is better than most of the others. Look it over and call me back first thing Monday morning. By the way, do you have anybody representing you?"

"No."

"Just as well. Flanigan, here, (he gestures to Godzilla) will handle your legal matters. He'll be your attorney. Everything else, like I said, is standard."

After a few more pleasantries, you're ushered out.

A moment after the perfume of the elevator wafts towards your nostrils warning bells finally come to the surface "I wonder where all the bread came from to build this place?", you muse to yourself. "The beautiful oak paneling? The marble reception area? The expensive office space?"

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The warning bells continue to chime.

SCENE 4, Back in your studio apartment, the same evening.

By now, you've lost count of the number of cups of coffee consumed. You thought it was going to be Perrier tonight, or maybe fine Chablis. Unfortunately, coffee is what you needed.

You read over the contract. You reread it. You pulled out a Webster's dictionary for assistance and read it a third time. You're afraid to sign a contract you don't understand. Despite your best efforts, the slow ice of worry and dread is starting to make its way up your spinal column. This can't be....

Finally in desperation, you realize you need an assist. You pull out your personal phone book and pray you haven't lost the phone number of your old music teacher. You also pray he hasn't moved. He once mentioned some of this stuff to you during a break in one of your lessons with him. You're sure that he will understand at least part of the legalese in the contract and make its significance clear. You're just about to reach for the phone when you notice Clarence. He's sitting in your favorite bean bag chair. How the hell did he get in here?

"I told you I'm you're guardian angel", Clarence says without prompting.

"I don't have a guardian angel. And if you don't leave right now I'm going to call the apartment manager and/or the police."

"As you wish, but I keep telling you I'm here to help you." Clarence stares at the papers in your hand. "Having a little trouble with that contract? You were just about to ring your former teacher for some advice, weren't you?"

You frown at him for a while until you realize that only an angel could possibly have known whose phone number you were about to look up. Maybe this guy is the real article.

Clarence gently prods you on "Please, go ahead. Call him. There are some things in this world people simply have to see for themselves." When you hesitate he insists. "Please, I won't hurt you. Call your friend. I'll just sit right here."

Luck is with you. Your former mentor still lives at the same address and he's home. He had just finished helping his daughter with her algebra assignment and was about to sit down and watch Deep Space Nine. And you tell him the whole story.

"So what the hell is some of this supposed to mean? Recoupability? Royalties? Assignment of copyright? Transfer of publishing interests? I don't understand any of it!"

You can hear your old teacher chuckle lightly. "Amigo, I can see you need some enlightenment. Let's start off with the obvious. Assignment of copyright means they want part of the copyright. Probably most of it, I'll bet."

"Yeah. But why?"

"Whoever owns a majority of the copyright on a song has final say over how it gets used. You won't have any control at all. In case one of your songs is successful they might want to use it to sell hemorrhoid medication."

This notion is so absurd that for a moment you can't respond. When you finally do it's out of shock. "I don't think I like that idea."

"Well, if you're going to make records for them that's what they want. It's their recording company so they make the rules. How about publishing?"

Somehow, you're not surprised he asked. "They want that, too. They're going to own a big percentage of the publishing as well. Why?"

"Money, my friend, money. If your songs ever get airplay they'll receive most of the performance royalties."

Neither of these ideas appeal to you so you try a different approach. "What about this recoupability clause? They're talking about production, manufacturing and promotion costs in it. What are they saying?

Unfazed, your old teacher replies, "What do you think it says?"

"Well, I knew that there's a lot of money that has to be spent just to get an album into a record store, what they call "overhead". There's the cost of recording, making the cassette or compact disk, distribution and so on. I guess I figured that after the overhead was paid off from the sales of my album that anything leftover would be split between me and my recording company."

"And what does it really say?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's probably the smartest thing you've said all day. So let me tell you what the contract really says. When you make a record for this company they're going to pay you a royalty for every record you sell. It doesn't matter whether you sell one copy or one million copies. It's still going to be the same royalty. Typical is ten percent of the retail price per copy."

So far, so good. "This much I understand, but what's this recoupability clause? It talks about my royalties in that paragraph."

"Ah, you found the recoupability clause. Good hunting. Want to know what recoupability means?

"Yes."

"Are you ready?"

"I think so."

"OK, here it comes. This clause in the contract means they, the recording company, have the right to "recover" everything they list in that paragraph of the contract out of your royalties. It usually includes all the costs you just listed plus quite a few others, such as promotion, advertising, a music video, touring expenses, and practically anything else you can think of. In plain English, you're the one who's going to end up paying for them."

"What?!" Off in the corner Clarence is wearing a sad smile and nods slowly in confirmation.

"You heard me. The costs of recording your record, manufacturing it, marketing it, and maybe a few other nefarious things throw in for good measure, all of them are ultimately going to come out of your pocket."

You throw a frightened glance at Clarence while, for a few seconds, you experience temporary vocal cord paralysis. Then you recover. "I don't believe it!"

"Don't." your former teacher tells you patiently, "but that's exactly what the contract says."

"That's crazy!"

"Tell you what. Why don't you sit down and total up all the costs from the items listed in that clause of the contract and then call me back."

A few minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee and a hand calculator in your hand you sit back in bed with a pad of paper. Clarence watches you carefully. He's evidently tactful enough not to say "I told you so" or anything like that. Though you don't know it at the moment this is about to be one of the more revelatory moments in your life, one of those experiences of recognition which will permanently alter your view of things.

You start by jotting down some of the items listed in the recoupability clause. You figure out what each is going to cost, taking care to be conservative for the sake of emphasis:

ADVANCE:           $50,000
RECORDING COSTS:  $100,000
MUSIC VIDEO        $75,000
CONCERT TOUR       $25,000
 
TOTAL             $250,000

At this point you drop your pen in shock. You haven't even added in the costs of manufacturing the compact disc or cassette, distribution, promotion, or advertisement and your overhead is already a quarter of a million dollars!

Next comes what you earn under the contract. It calls for you to be paid a 10% royalty per copy of the manufacturer's suggested retail price. Assuming that each cassette or compact disk goes for an average of about $10.00 you realize that you're going to have to sell at least 250,000 copies of your first record just to break even!

You feel your colon beginning to lose its fortitude. "Clarence!!"

The old man nods. "You called?", he says calmly.

"I thought you said you were going to give me what I wanted!"

"That's true. I did say that. But if you listened to me carefully you'll remember that the whole purpose behind giving you what you wanted was to help you feel better about your life. That's the whole point of this exercise."

"You call this feeling better about my life? I've got a few choice ways to describe what I call this but I'm not sure they're fit for the virgin-pure ears of a guardian angel, or whatever it is you call yourself!"

"Look, I knew you were going to be angry, but if you'll let me explain...."

You reach for the phone with a quivering hand.

Your tone gives it all away. "Ah, I can see you totaled it all up, didn't you!", your teacher says with a note of satisfaction.

Despite being dumbfounded you manage to convey a few broken words. "My God. If I signed this contract I'd be in debt until I sold two hundred and fifty thousand copies! Under this system even their advance is no different than a loan!"

"You got it."

"Wait a minute. I just thought of something else. If I sell that many copies that means there's an income of two and a half million dollars, right? That's two hundred and fifty thousand copies at ten bucks a shot."

"Correctamente."

"But there would be just enough in royalties to pay off the overhead covered by that recoupability clause. At this point I've just broken even, isn't that so?"

"Corractamente, part II."

"So," you continue, "where's all the rest of that money going?"

Pause, extremely pregnant. "Where do you think, my young protégé'?"

This time it's Hiroshima, dead center. "They get it."

"Right. They get it. All of it. You can be in the red and they can be in the black. This happens all the time. In fact, any album that sells enough so that the income is greater than the overhead means a profit for the recording company but none for you...until so many copies sell that the royalties are greater than that same overhead. Then you begin to make some bucks. And maybe not even then."

"What do you mean, 'maybe not even then'?"

"Who collects this money and pays you the royalties?"

You hadn't even considered this simple point before or assigned it any importance. "The record company, I guess."

"Good guess." The next statement comes through the receiver dripping with sarcasm. "And they never make a mistake, right?"

"Are you suggesting they would underpay my royalties?"

"No suggesting needed, my dear Elvis. One of the few proartist music business lawyers in this country once said he doubted there was a single honest royalty statement issued by any major recording company. That may be a pretty drastic pronouncement but it holds water. That same lawyer once deposed the audit manager for one of the biggest labels and asked him under oath if he had ever seen an audit where there wasn't a shortfall to the performer. The answer was 'no'! And this affects the high and the mighty as well as the low and the grungy. Did you know that John Lennon sued Dick James music after the Beatles broke up because they had underpaid the equivalent of $12,000,000 in royalties? And that's in 1970 dollars!"

"But surely you can have your artist statement audited! Surely you can take legal action to make sure they pay!"

"You haven't been listening to all that I've been telling you. And you haven't been using a little used commodity called 'common sense'. How are you going to have your royalty statements audited if you don't have the money to pay an accountant? How are you going to sue them to make them pay the money they owe you when you don't have the money to hire a lawyer to begin with? And as for an attorney, didn't you tell me they gave you one?"

"Yeah, and that's another thing I was going to ask you. Who was that guy anyway? They're 'assigning' me a lawyer?"

The humorous sarcasm comes back in full force. "Surrrrre they did! And who is paying his salary?"

By this point your capacity for astonishment has been totally spent.

"The record company."

"You're getting warmer. That's right, the record company. Welcome to reality. So who's interest do you think this lawyer has in mind? Virtually all of the music business lawyers work either directly for, or are loyal to, the interests of the major recording companies. The number of exceptions can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Artists come and go. Groups break the charts and then vanish forever. Success in the music business is rare. Sustained success is virtually impossible. But the record companies, ah, the record companies endure for decades! Don't you think music business lawyers know this, too? You are as disposable a commodity as a styrofoam cup."

A light bulb goes off. "Well, maybe I can negotiate with them about some of this stuff?"

"You can try. But I'd be willing to bet that the response will be something to the effect of 'don't slam the door too hard on your way out'. After all, they can have five hundred guys like you in their office within minutes, all of them stupid as a country bumpkin fresh off a turnip truck and willing to sell their mother to Saddam Hussein for the chance to sign that same contract that you are now holding in your hot little hands. And the record companies know it. My wager is they'll have no patience with somebody who knows what's what."

This is not the way you had envisioned the "big break". In fact, the dream is turning into the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland, with no end to the ride in sight. You look at Clarence again. The old fellow hasn't moved. He's watching you calmly and his smile is gone. Now he just looks sad.

Entirely off the subject you ask your old teacher, "How did you learn all of this?"

For the first time his voice turns wistful. "Remember that band I once mentioned I belonged to long ago? Fate took an interesting twist with us. When the band broke up a couple of the band members went solo. As luck would have it one of them managed to attract the attention of a major label, just like you did. Unlike, you however, he signed his contract without hardly even reading it."

"And what happened to him?"

"I'm not sure you want to know."

"Try me."

"Well, he had a couple of albums out but never made it to the charts. That's anathema in the music business, you know. There's the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt get thy hit. When he didn't get a hit they stopped being so friendly. There weren't enough sales of his albums to pay back the overhead that it took to produce them. So suddenly he was in debt to the tune of a couple of hundred thousand dollars. He couldn't hire an accountant to force them to pay him the royalties that he finally figured out they were underpaying him. He couldn't hire a lawyer to protect him when they began to threaten him with breach of contract when an album was overdue.

"Once, because he called one of their senior executives the wrong name, they got him back but good. His contract required him to be out on tour after each album so he had to spend most of his time out on the road. They got their revenge by sending him out on the most abusive tour schedule imaginable. The poor fellow had to play dates in the Midwest in the middle of winter! The whole experience was like a speeding train. He couldn't get off. The recording company owned a majority of his copyright so he had no control over his own songs. They owned a majority of his publishing so he hardly saw any income from what little airplay his songs got. He once told me that it felt like slavery had never been abolished. And all this was before the pressure got to him so badly that he couldn't even write songs anymore. The stress got so intense he started using alcohol and drugs. Fortunately he stopped in time. But the whole experience left him heavily in debt and badly scarred emotionally. He's one disillusioned, cynical dude, a total cinder. I don't dream of the bigtime anymore because I've seen first hand what it can do to people. You have to be careful in this life when you dream of something 'cause it just might happen."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

"I tried to, like I try with all my students. I warn them to copyright anything they do and keep the copyright close to their hip. I tell them to market their own music. You may not make much that way but what you make is truly yours. But best of all you're totally in control. You record and perform whatever you want when you decide to do so. Like so many of my students you probably were off in your own denial, thinking 'Oh, with me it's going to be different'. Well, it never is."

"So what do I do now?"

"Do whatever you want. Just do it with your eyes wide open. No denial. Remember, you're dealing with people who make Stalin look like a choirboy."

After effusive thanks you hang up the phone and stare at Clarence. "Now what?"

"What do you want?"

"What I'd like to do is take this contract and stick it forcibly into one of McDougal's bodily orifices. I just haven't figured out which one yet."

Clarence grins. "I don't think that will be approved of. What else do you want?"

"I don't know." As your confusion mounts you begin to go around in circles. "I don't know!"

The old man tries to be helpful. "If you could have anything in the world right now what would it be?"

It feels like his questions takes ages of time to process even though the actual elapsed time is only a minute or so. "I think I'd like to give this contract one last try. Maybe my old teacher was wrong about negotiating with McDougal. I think I owe it to myself to see this through to the end."

He nods agreeably. "I can understand that. OK, go ahead and try. Talk to McDougal Monday morning and see if you can get him to yield on anything."

And with that the old man vanishes, leaving you with your "big break", your lukewarm coffee and your doubts.

SCENE 5, Monday afternoon, back in your studio apartment.

You close the front door behind you looking like you just stepped out of the Twilight Zone. If anybody had told you what was going to happen in McDougal's office you would have dismissed him as a lunatic. But it did happen.

You told McDougal you didn't feel comfortable about signing the contract. You had reservations, you told him, and was hoping for a few changes. You wanted to retain control of your own copyright. Since you had already had a publishing company you did not want to use theirs. You tried to be tactful and yet firm, not wanting to offend but not wanting him to think you a wimp.

That's when he blew up.

You had seen tantrums before in your life but this one was the most frightening, being the only one you've ever seen in anyone past the age of seven. You lost count of the number of insults, the number of times he threw things around the room, the number of times he threatened you. He made it clear that not one word of the contract was going to be changed and that you could take it or leave it. Then he pulled out the heavy artillery:

"To hell with you, anyway!", McDougal roared. "We can use your songs without you whether you like it or not! Remember that demo you sent to us a couple years back? Well there was no copyright on the label! So that means the songs aren't copyright protected! We'll just give your songs to some of our other acts and see if they can use them! And just for good measure I'm going to call a few of my friends and when I'm finished you're not going to be able to perform at a circus freak show!"

Then he threw you out of his office. And now your home. There, in a corner of the room, sits Clarence on the bean bag chair.

"So," he begins, "did you get what you wanted?"

You can't keep the disgust, anger and frustration out of your voice. "Look, if you're an angel you tell me."

He sighs heavily and says slowly, "I tried to warn you. Your music teacher tried to warn you. I'll help you if you'll let me but you're going to have to listen instead of talk."

By now you're so numbed up and exhausted that you haven't the energy to fight. "Enlighten me, please."

Clarence stares at you directly and pronounces, "A lot of people don't know what they really want. Even if they do know what they want they sometimes pursue it in the wrong way. Why don't you tell me what you want and I'll tell you how to get it? That way maybe I'll be able to help you with this life of yours."

After what you've been through in the last few days you choose your words hesitatingly. "I love music. I like writing music."

Clarence smiles. "No harm there.", he says. "Go on."

"I want to own what I write. I don't want anybody telling me what to do with my music. That means I get to own my own copyright."

He nods again. "That's easy to understand. But you had that before I arrived." Your puzzled expression causes him to go further. "Weren't you marketing through CMC?"

"Well, yeah, but...."

"And didn't Mr. Wallace insist that everybody own their own copyright?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So why did you want something different?"

His question leaves you confused. Why did I? you wonder. "I don't want anybody shortchanging me with this royalty crap.", you continue .

Clarence grins. "You had that already, too."

"I did?"

"Well, didn't Ron Wallace sell your copies on consignment? Neither of you was making money at the expense of the other. You didn't make money unless he did and he didn't make money unless you did. Nobody won unless everybody won."

"I gotta admit that's true, but..."

"So why didn't you stick with him? Why did you want this thing called a "big break"? You already had what you wanted. You were your own boss. No one obligated you to do anything. You could record music as often or as rarely as you wished. You could make whatever kind of music you wished. You owned your own music. No matter how many copies you sold you made money on each one. And nobody made money at your expense. It's true you sold fewer copies than you would with a major recording company but you actually earned more that way. Think about it for a second. Isn't that what you wanted all along?"

It doesn't take you a second to figure this out but it doesn't take more than ten. "Very persuasive, Mr. Angel. All right I concede I should have stayed the way I was. I was happier that way. But now what do I do? You destroyed my original reality. Now I'm stuck with Ripemoff records (fine name by the way). If you want to make me feel better about my life why don't you give me back my life the way it was?"

Clarence clears his throat and asks, "Are you sure?"

"Goddamnit, yes, I'm sure! Reset!!"

"OK. Since I'm way behind schedule already I won't make you jump through any hoops of fire." He snaps his fingers. "Congratulations. Ripemoff records has never heard of you. Ron Wallace and CMC are back where I found them. As a matter of fact, Ron will be calling you in about a minute or so. You've got a gig tonight back at that coffeehouse I found you in. It just so happens the owner likes your repertoire and wants you back again later this year. Anything else?"

"Two things", you begin, "First, thank you. Second, please explain to me why if the Big Break was not what I wanted then why did I pursue it in the first place? Why would I be so stupid?"

"Oh, that's an easy one, my musician friend. Fame, fortune, the roar of the greasepaint, these things are intoxicating. There isn't a person in the world who hasn't wanted them at one time or another. It's only human. There are lots of people out there, just like your music teacher told you, who would give almost anything for a crack at the big time. But it's just like a toddler reaching for a hot stove. They think they want it but when they actually touch it they get burned. 'All that glitters' and so on." He thinks for a moment and then adds, "If it's of any value to you you're not the first to have to find this out. In fact, you're one of the lucky ones. I don't get to visit just anybody in this world nowadays. It's rather crowded down here and we're way behind quota. So keep your chin up. You already had everything that you wanted anyway. Just don't sing in the streets. It ties up traffic!"

And with that he vanishes.

True to his word, you can't find your copy of the contract from Ripemoff records. It's gone. But your CMC Artist's handbook is right on your desk where you left it.

The phone rings. It's Ron Wallace. "Listen, I need to replenish my inventory. We sold a few copies of your last record. Oh, and by the way, I've been able to get some airplay for a couple of your songs. Nothing big, just a few college stations but they like the stuff and they're going to keep playing it..."

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Garrett Sawyer is a CMC Artist Member.