Millions for a Song (4 page)

Faced with his outright refusal, we cave. We agree to a five-year contract, each of us thinking to himself/herself that if ever a dispute arises, we can always pull out our trump card—the fact we were minors at the time the contract was signed.

To be honest, we're ready to sign pretty much anything. Tom has managed to convince us that, thanks to him, a dazzling career awaits.

If Mélanie hadn't kept her eyes peeled, we could have lost some big money. The contract was so long and written in such complicated legalese that the rest of us didn't notice a clause stipulating that all songs (lyrics and music) legally belong to our manager—that is Tom Paradis.

Tom Paradis seems less than thrilled when Mélanie zeroes in on the clause. He tries to wriggle out of it, claiming it's no big deal. “Do you know how much money songwriters make? Chump change, that's what! You have to be crazy to write songs in Quebec. You've got to understand that the clause is meaningless. In fact, I'm not even sure why it wasn't deleted. I asked my lawyer to do just that; he must have forgotten.”

But Mélanie doesn't back down. She insists that he cross out the paragraph and initial the change.

Eventually, he does as asked, not without drafting a new clause that says, more or less:
The parties agree that the songs (lyrics and music) for which they hold a copyright belong to them. This agreement comes into effect on the signing of the contract and nullifies all former provisions.

“What does that mean?” Bruno asks.

“Just that we've withdrawn the crossed-out clause. That's what you want, isn't it? As long as a copyright has been taken out on the song or proof is provided as to who wrote it, the song belongs to that person. Seems clear to me. Who says you won't start singing some of my songs down the road? In case you didn't know, kids, I too am a songwriter …”

We decide to back down. Why wouldn't we sing his songs if they were any good? One thing for sure, we can't challenge his right to write them.

So we initial the clause. And Tom's smile returns.

But that one detail makes us wary. We decide we'd best be careful around our manager. Maybe he's right and songwriting isn't very lucrative in Quebec, but it remains to be seen. We decide to do some checking as soon as possible and remember to take care of our copyrights, too.

Finally, an exasperated Bruno cries, “Let's not get all paranoid. Our songs are our songs after all. We wrote the lyrics and the music together. We can all be called on as witnesses to that fact and as authors of the songs. Just let Tom try to challenge that right and he'll see who he's up against!”

We say good-bye, knowing we'll be playing at St. Pierre Clavier in a week from now … No doubt about it, the wheel of fortune is turning in our favor.

Tom didn't lie. Since signing with him, we haven't stopped. We haven't had a single weekend off. We're being showered with contracts. It's been a crazy whirlwind!

My parents aren't nearly as thrilled. Especially not my dad, who's been driving us to and from every show. Thankfully, Bruno's and Jean-François' parents have agreed to help out or it would have been game over for us. My dad was done with being our taxi service. His mood greatly improved when he found out he'd only be “on duty” once every three weeks from now on.

At any rate, his suffering won't last forever since Jean-François should have his driver's license any day now. We won't have to be so dependent. Better yet, Jean-François will have the use of his mother's car since she doesn't need it on weekends.

So everything is coming along nicely. We're definitely starting
to make a name for ourselves. Kids are humming our
songs all over the place. Too bad we haven't been
able to do any recordings yet. Tom says he's doing
his best on that end, but times are tough and
we'll just have to wait a few months, maybe even a year.

But we're so gung-ho. You've got to strike while the iron's hot, my dad always says—not that he's your blacksmith type.

If only we had
CD
s to sell after every show, we could sell dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands. The crowds just keep getting bigger. We are without question the “it” group. Our first audience had it right: we're almost as popular as The Box.

Our biggest asset is our female singer. You might not think it, but it works doubly in our favor: girls identify with Mélanie and guys fall for her. The more shows we do, the better she gets. She's dynamite on stage. A real firecracker!

Needless to say, after six months performing all over Montreal and area, a
CD
would give us a fresh start.

We've broken in several songs, changed the lyrics on others. We're convinced that “Live in the Dark” could be a huge hit. It's simple but catchy from the very first note on. I often hear teens humming it in school or on the bus.

When I need help

And nobody comes

I'm left alone

To grow by myself

When I need love

And nobody cares

I'm left alone

Carry on myself

Pain and hurt

Just staying alive

It's sad for me

When it's fun for you

Forget this truth

Like living a lie

Try running away

From old Destiny

(chorus)

I live in the dark

I live in the dark

And it's the night

All day long

We're so desperate to record that we accept Tom's back-up plan. A homemade option. Tom provides a recording studio and produces a
CD
for sale in schools, under the table.

The problem, though, is the whole thing will cost at least $6,000, money that has to come out of our pockets. But Tom's agreed to ante up the cash, and we'll pay him back with the proceeds from our shows.

We're tempted by the whole arrangement, as unprofessional as it sounds. We'd rather have a legit
CD
. But by accepting, it'll be a way of getting our songs circulating through the schools, where our audience is.

Tom even came up with the idea of hiring a roving sales team—comprised of students—to sell the
CD
s in schools. The hitch is that he's dead set against giving us any royalties. He claims the whole operation requires too big of an investment, money that could be put to better use elsewhere. He's adamant. “If you think that on top of lending you that amount of cash, I'm going to hand over royalties to the copies sold, you've got another think coming. I'm no Santa Claus!

“I'm willing to take the risk even knowing I could lose my shirt on the deal. You know as well as I do that most students burn their own copies of their favorite singers' songs.

“So if I'm lucky, I'll clear at the most $1,000 from
CD
sales. That's equal to the commission I'd be entitled to anyway. But if sales are more sluggish, I probably won't make a cent off a $6,000 investment and a project that will take at least three weeks' full-time work from me.

“In other words, I'll have done all that for nothing, and lost money to boot. That would make me, Tom Paradis, the king of fools. If that's what you think, I've got news for you! Anyway, enough idle chit-chat. Take it or leave it, end of story.”

So we take it! The desire to see our band's name on a
CD
is too strong. We can't resist. We sign an
I.O.U.
with him. And keep our fingers crossed.

What a disappointment!
The
CD
cover is godawful. Luckily, the sound quality's not
bad. But that picture! Yuck! Tom's taste to a
T
. About as tacky as can be. A black-and-white picture of Mélanie dressed like a call girl.

How could she have agreed to be photographed in that getup without consulting us first? It's a total mystery to me. Tom must have convinced her that what sells tapes isn't always tasteful. Not
that he can distinguish between what's tasteful and what's not. Sometimes I wonder why he ever took us under his wing.

As for Mélanie, she's barricaded herself behind a wall of silence. It's like she's become Tom's ally. She claims the picture isn't all that bad, it's just my jealousy talking. For the past few weeks, Mélanie's pretending she's someone she isn't. Better than everyone else. She slips away every chance she gets.

I suspect she's let herself be taken in, again, by an older man. That's her downfall: she's obviously searching for a father figure to replace the one she doesn't have. But it's impossible to coax her to talk about it. She's as silent as a tomb. As mysterious as all the great seductresses.

Our
CD
's a huge hit! Since it came out ten months ago now (boy, does time ever fly), it's sold like hotcakes.

One other thing bugs me: the songwriting credits are nowhere to be seen. Tom claims he forgot. But he sure didn't forget to write: © Tom Paradis Inc. and the year.

When I pointed it out, he immediately bristled, “Really, Alexandre, do you not know anything? For your information, I have to put that logo on everything I produce for tax purposes. It's the law. So much so that I'm not even the one who saw to it, the printer looked after it. Nothing can be published without showing the person responsible. Income tax, buddy, ever heard of it? Of course not. The day you start paying, you'll understand …”

What can I say other than that his explanation doesn't change the fact that our names don't appear anywhere on the
CD
and that's got me pretty mad?

He raises his hands like he can't do anything about it and has no desire to discuss the matter further. As far as he's concerned, the case is closed. So he changes the subject. “Listen, I forgot to tell you I'm off to London in a few days' time. I'll be there for four or five weeks. Catherine will look after your contracts while I'm gone. She'll mail them out to you. You're still good for another three weeks. If things slow down, it's no big deal. For the past year, you've barely had a single weekend off. A bit of a rest will do you good.”

I agree. Our career, since that's what this is, has taken over our lives. We never stop, not even for a second. Two or three weeks off would be a welcome break. We could start writing more songs, too.

We'll have to anyway, since our fans are starting to get tired of our material. For once, I think Tom's right. Especially since we've paid back the amount owed for the
CD
by now. And we don't really need the money ...

Curious as always and forever on the lookout for new opportunities that might suit our band, I ask him what he'll be doing in London.

“That's my business, my man.”

“Hey, just asking—I wasn't trying to stick my nose into your business. You've been to London twice in the past six months. I just wondered if it had anything to do with us, with Nexxtep.”

“If something pans out, I'll let you know.”

The message comes in loud and clear. I shut my trap. Tom gets to his feet and waves. “See you in a month or so. Till then, take care, my man.”

Tom may seem like the consummate salesman, always brimming with confidence, but this time I get the feeling he's uneasy around me. Why? Who the hell knows ...

We, too, are U2

four

W
e've been on edge for three weeks now. We haven't heard anything from Tom. He was supposed to be back on October 12
th
. It's now the 30
th
. No calls. No sign of life. Nothing but silence. As for Catherine, his secretary, she's impossible to get hold of.

Not surprisingly, we
have no contracts for the coming weeks. At first, that
suited us just fine. Now it's a drag. Time off
is great, but you can have too much of a
good thing. We're pacing like caged lions. But what can we do?

To keep busy, we've written some new songs. Five in all and one in particular, “Limited Sensations,” that has the makings of a hit. The tempo is great. Really rocking. I'm not unhappy with the lyrics either.

With John Wayne

Riding a horse

With James Dean

Driving a car

Looks different

But it's all the same

Just like you

Just like me

Don't care about you

Not like it's true

Only want to have their way

They always pass on through

(chorus)

They will die in pain

Unsatisfied

And nothing can explain

Never knowing why.

So we keep rehearsing in my basement, waiting for Tom's phone call. We're worried. Why the silence? Has Tom decided to ditch us? If so, why? He's got nothing to complain about. We've been with him for a year. We've put on more than a hundred shows. A pretty impressive track record if you ask me.

As for him, he
got (actually took) his twenty-five per cent as set out
in the contract. Plus the $6,000 for the
CD
. He
can't possibly have lost money on us.

We're a far cry from the gloomy predictions he made when we first talked about making a
CD
. There's no denying that Tom's a shrewd businessman. In a few short weeks, he trained an impressive number of roaming student teams recruited from the different high schools, and gave them the job of selling our
CD
for a fifteen per cent commission.

Going by the numbers for my school, our
CD
sold not in the hundreds but in the thousands. All the more likely since none of us was able to verify the number of
CD
s produced. One thousand, two, five?

I'm not trying to say we're Tom's cash cows or anything, but I'm pretty sure he's made at least $20,000 off us. As a matter of fact, the gears ran smoothly while he himself had next to nothing to do.

So how to explain his disappearing act? Is he following some hot tip? Has he gone bankrupt? Anything is possible. How to know? Only he can tell us ...

Today we're gonna party! We're heading over together to see
U2
's show. A big deal. It's going to be an awesome scene with a sound system loud enough to burst fifty thousand fans' eardrums.

So as to get our fill, our band bought the best tickets in the place. Crazy expensive. But Montreal must be full of crazy fans these days because the show sold out! And black market prices are demented. Scalpers are raking in the dough. Five times the face value for floor seats. And people are snapping them up. It's insane.

There's no way we'd ever sell our tickets. Even if we were offered $1,000, we'd say no! We didn't spend a night sleeping outside for nothing. That's just what we did: we camped out overnight to be sure to get the best seats as soon as the box office opened.

The show starts the minute we walk inside. Have you ever seen fifty thousand people crammed together? It's mayhem! Sometimes it feels like the place will give under all the pressure, collapsing into a cloud of dust.

The crowd's excitement holds us captive. There's a lot of aggression in the air, no one really knows why. It wouldn't take much for a rampage to start. You can feel it. You can see it. Everyone's holding their breath.

At the same time, they're all hoping for a bit of drama. Everyone wants to witness something out of the ordinary. A riot. To be able to say once the storm dies down, “I was there. It was terrifying! In the space of a few minutes, the powderkeg exploded. There were fireworks everywhere. Real dynamite. Everyone throwing punches. Blood everywhere. People shouting. Girls screaming. Blades glinting in the dark. It was wild.”

Fortunately, that's not what happens. There is no riot, but you can feel the electricity in the air. Zap, zap. We're all on edge, feverish, agitated, waiting for
U2
to whip the crowd into a frenzy, carry us away with its beat. The band had better start soon or the whole place will lift off into the air like a helium balloon.

There's already some pushing and shoving going on in the crowd. A few fights have broken out. The police intervene. Guys and girls with frozen smiles, blank stares. Stoned out of their minds. Floating above the others.

Then the four of them appear, superb, electric, on the huge lit stage. With a single cry, the crowd goes nuts. Sending them flying across the stage. Like crickets. Kangaroos. Gurus. Bono runs toward us, his arm clasped over his heart.

He's got a broken
forearm, but that doesn't cramp his style. He's as frenzied
as the others. What am I saying, more than the
others! Bono, the one, the only, the never to be
forgotten, the god of rock. My idol. I'm so into
him I would happily break my own arm against a
cement ledge. Without hesitating. Without thinking. What can I say,
I'm crazy about the guy. No one is his equal.

They're
all dressed in black. Leather boots and jean jackets. Bono
has his hat on. His hair peeking out underneath. Only
his arm in a sling stands out against all the
black. A great white cry. It's truly something to see.

Larry
Mullen settles in behind the drums. Thunder straight from Ireland.
Bouncing, rolling, unfurling everywhere. Ricocheting off bodies and walls. An
avalanche of sound. Then hundreds of tumbling stones. Tom Thumb
stones. The crowd's swept away by the magic.

Now The Edge, the guitarist. A king. He makes his strings keen to the four winds. A thousand drops of lead dripping from above. Stretching, twisting, melting, scattering. He launches into a supreme lament. A broken heart. My eyes fill. I'm mesmerized.

Then it's over to Adam Clayton, the bass player, to make us quake. His notes rumble deep in my ribcage. Like he's dredging the music up from the bowels of the earth. A threatening rumble like a coming earthquake. The ground moves beneath my feet.

I can't describe the high I feel. And to think the show hasn't even started yet! What will it be like two hours from now?

It was paradise up until the moment Bono, pausing for effect, cried out, thrilled and proud of his offering guaranteed to make his Quebec audience roar, “And now, for all the Quebecers, a song written and composed by one of your own, Mr. Tom Paradis, ‘Live in the Dark.' ”

We all stand there stunned. Me, Mélanie, Bruno, and Jean-François. Looking at each other, incredulous. I cannot describe just how hard my heart's pounding in my chest. When
U2
starts playing the first bars, I discover, we discover, that we've been conned by that lowlife Tom.

We're torn. We listen to our song interpreted in a whole new way, but with such fire that we're crazy proud and crazy furious. Someone else getting credit for this song, our song. We want to cry, “Stop! Stop! There's been a mistake! It's not Tom Paradis, but Mélanie, Jean-François, Bruno, and Alexandre from the band Nexxtep who wrote that song!”

Of course, there's nothing we can do. So we listen right through to the end of the song. We see, we hear the crowd go wild, knowing it was meant for us. We're so proud!

The
next minute, fury and humiliation set in, and we'll stop
at nothing to track down Tom Paradis, that creep!

We can't even make it to the end of the show. Bruno's so furious that, for a minute, I think he just might smash everything in sight. He's crimson, clenching his fists, swearing like a madman, “I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna kill him,” over and over.

I'm sure he would too if he could get his hands on Tom Paradis. Bruno's like that: a shy guy who flares up at the slightest spark. Watch out when he loses it. There's trouble ahead.

He was in a fight with a guy from Brébeuf once. A good thing I happened to be there, too, or Bruno would have beaten him to a bloody pulp. I had to hold him back with all my might to keep him from caving in the guy's ribs with his violent kicks. The poor guy lay on the ground, his face already all bloody, but Bruno was blind with rage. He was beyond reason. It was like he'd lost touch with reality. Thankfully, I managed to stop him.

I took him to a restaurant to calm him down. We ordered coffee. He was shaking so hard he couldn't hold his coffee cup. He kept saying the same thing over and over, “I'd have killed him, I'd have killed him … If you hadn't been there, I would have killed him for sure.” Shaking all the while.

After a
good ten minutes, he calmed down. He started to worry
about the other guy. He wondered if he hadn't done him some serious harm. He felt guilty. “What can I say—when someone provokes me, I don't know what comes over me. I lose my mind. If I'd had a wooden stick or a steel rod, I'm sure I'd have busted his skull.”

He started dreading his violent flare-ups. “You know, Alex, I'm scared. Sometimes I wonder if I won't kill someone in a fit of rage and end up in prison.”

Bruno started
drowning in the darkness, feeling guilty about everything. He hated
not being able to stay in control. Like the blushing
he seemed incapable of stopping. Everytime the red crept up, it totally threw him.

He'd be so worked up about blushing, he'd be at
a loss for words. He felt ridiculous, couldn't stand the
thought someone might be making fun of him—which, naturally, everyone
did, and cruelly, too. He felt diminished, didn't want to
see anyone anymore, hid out in his room, refused to
go out for days at a time.

After his long descent into hell, he'd reappear, just like that, as though nothing had happened. He'd be his old self again, full of energy, funny as can be, ready with more of his quick comebacks.

I rediscovered then the Bruno I loved: imaginative, creative, tuned into great stuff, the friend who introduced me to Apollinaire's
Alcools,
Anne Hébert's
Children of the Black Sabbath,
Jack Kerouac's
On the Road,
and Jacques Poulin's
Volkswagen Blues.
The friend I loved more than all the others because I knew what a great guy he was and that one day, he'd do great things.

Bruno belongs to the breed of creators. I'm proud to be his friend ....

But back to the problem at hand. Right after
U2
's rendition, we head out of the stadium to hold an emergency meeting at our usual haunt, Katarak Souvlaki.

After a long discussion, we conclude there's only one solution to the whole business: hire a lawyer and sue Tom Paradis.

Everyone suggests that Bruno ask his dad to take on the case before the courts. To avoid having to pay legal fees. It's a good idea, but Bruno's dad works for a firm that specializes in taxation.

Bruno suggests we call on the services of an expert instead, and it just so happens he knows someone who fits the bill. “An old friend of my dad's, Laurent Biron, specializes in the field of film royalties. I see him all the time when he comes over for dinner. I can guarantee he'd be happy to take on our case. For a reasonable fee too, since it's his good friend's son doing the asking.”