The High Notes: A Novel(31)

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Joanne, Clay’s senior assistant, came to get Iris in the studio where she was working the next day, and told her that Clay and the attorneys were waiting for her in the big conference room in Clay’s office. She told her musicians they could take a break for lunch, and she followed Joanne to an enormous room, where Clay and two men were sitting at one end of a very long table, looking serious. They were there to talk about her contract with Glen Hendrix.

“Come on in, Iris.” Clay smiled at her, waved her to a chair next to him, and introduced her to the two men. They were all wearing jeans and blazers, like a uniform, and open crisp white shirts. They looked businesslike and casual, and the lead lawyer, Paul Redmond, got right to the point.

“Some of it is standard boilerplate,” he explained to her about the contract, “and a few clauses are within normal legal bounds, what you’d expect in any contract of this kind. But most of it violates your most basic rights. You have no right to any profits, and no information. You’re expected to work well beyond the hours dictated by the labor laws, with no additional compensation. You’re obliged to work if you’re sick, or penalized financially if you don’t. He has the right to dock your pay for any infraction he deems worthy of it with no explanation of what that infraction would be. You can’t hold him responsible for any physical injury while you’re on the tour, no matter what the cause is, faulty equipment, natural disasters, human error of some kind, and he can fire you at any time without notice, but you can’t quit.” The second lawyer, Andrew Stoddard, nodded as he listened. They had gone over the Hendrix contract carefully and were shocked. It was one of the worst contracts they’d ever seen, and gave one the measure of the man who had ordered it. Everything was in his favor and nothing in hers.

“Normally, some of these tour contracts can be hard to break, and take some negotiation to get out of, which we’d be prepared to do. We’ve done it before. But this Hendrix contract violates your basic human rights and all the labor laws which apply to this kind of activity so completely that there’s no question in our minds that the contract isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.” Her eyes lit up as she absorbed what he had said, and Clay looked pleased too.

“What do I have to do to get out of it?”

“Nothing,” the lawyer reassured her. “He knows how bad his contract is. He couldn’t defend it in court or in front of a labor board. We’ll send him a letter declaring it void, and making it clear that we’ll report him if he pursues you in any way. You’re free to do as you want, as of now. You can sign a contract with Clay, if that’s what you’d like to do, and you can have a lawyer of your own look at it before you sign. You should do that, to be sure you understand what you’re agreeing to.” Clay used a short form for young artists just starting out. Paul pushed it across the table to her. It was a two-page document, and unlike the Hendrix contract, the language was simple and clear. It stated that she wished Clay Maddox to represent her. Their agreement could be dissolved by either party with ninety days’ notice in writing. Any salaries, profits, or royalties due her at that time would be paid in full. She was engaging to perform on a full-length album with the songs to be chosen by her and Clay in agreement on the material. A tour was to be negotiated at a later date, under conditions she agreed to with no obligation for her to tour if she didn’t wish to. She was to receive an advance for the album that made her eyes pop as she read it and looked at Clay and he nodded.

“That’s standard,” he whispered to her.

She was to get a twenty-five percent royalty on the album, which was at the high end, with front-and back-end profits. She had an option for a second album, and all publicity and use of her image or name had to have her consent. It was all in black and white on the page, and she didn’t need an attorney to tell her it was a great contract. Clay’s contracts were always generous and fair. He wanted his artists to be happy and most of them were, except the greediest stars, to whom he made additional concessions when he thought they were worth it, and some were. Her contract also said that all costumes worn onstage or for publicity events were to be paid for by Clay. They had left nothing out. And Boy had been given a similar contract for his two singles, with an option for an album if the singles were a success.

“Where’s a pen?” Iris asked, and the three men laughed.

“You really should have a lawyer look at it for you,” Paul Redmond said gently.

“Why? I can read. Everything is right here. The only things I didn’t get were a Rolls-Royce and a dog.”

Clay slapped his head as she said it and looked at his attorneys. “Damn! Did you forget those again?” He turned to Iris. “What kind of dog?”

“A white fluffy Chihuahua,” she said, joking. She’d always wanted a dog as a kid, but there had been no way to have one with the life she led with her father. They had picked up a stray once, and he’d traveled in the truck with them for two weeks and then got hit by a car at a truck stop. Her father wasn’t even responsible enough to take care of a dog, let alone a child.

Andy Stoddard handed her a pen as Clay nodded, and she signed her name on three copies, one for herself, one for Clay, and one for the office. Then she turned and kissed Clay on the cheek with a grateful look. “Thank you for being so good to me.” He really was like a father to her, the kind one dreamed of and she’d never had. Then she turned to the two attorneys. “And thank you for getting rid of Glen Hendrix for me.”