Phantom Banjo (5 page)

"No problem's more like it," she said,
grinning with the sunniness that was more customary to her than the
gloom of the last few days. "Three hundred dollars and a meal for a
forty-five-minute set. Not too bad."

The prospect of playing the concert worked
like a tonic. They rehearsed feverishly in the intervening time.
The afternoon of the show, George wore his blue mattress-ticking
shirt with the white stand-up collar, Sears jeans, and a pair of
red suspenders. Juli shook the wrinkles out of a calico skirt and
used it for a petticoat under a front-buttoned blue dirndl, pressed
a white cotton blouse embroidered with white thread birds, and
belted them together with a striped sash her sister had sent from
Bahrain.

They spent the afternoon pre-tuning the
instruments. A few days before they'd changed all the strings on
the guitars to give them time to mellow out before the concert.

The concert was scheduled for eight-thirty.
Before the show, they joined Josh for a drink in his hotel room.
The room was standard Holiday Inn, but the space between the bed
and the wall was filled with two guitar cases, four autoharp cases
(Josh always kept an extra instrument tuned in case he broke a
string or needed to change to another key quickly, as he often did
with the autoharps), and a smallish suitcase. The little table held
toothbrush glasses, an ice bucket, a can of Diet 7-Up and a can of
Diet Pepsi and a couple of bottles of booze.

Josh greeted them with a brief hug and a
perfunctory buss on the cheek for Juli. "Did you bring your
instruments up with you?" he asked, pushing back a receding mane of
wiry salt-and-pepper hair with both hands.

"They're down in the van," George said.

"Sometimes I wish I still drove to most of my
gigs. The airlines keep thinking up new ways to lose and damage
instruments all the time. Last time they broke that special
hammered dulcimer I had made—the one with the bass notes? It's like
playing Russian roulette every time I get on the plane—"

"And that's not even counting what might
happen to the passengers," George said. "Like the crash coming back
from Piedmont carrying Lila Whittaker, Karen Parsons, and Jed
Sikorsky."

"Let's not think about that just before the
show, okay?" Josh said with a pained tightening of his jaw. He
poured drinks for all of them in the toothbrush glasses and when he
turned back to them he seemed a little less tense. "So tell me,
how's it going with you?"

George muttered something noncommittal but
Juli plunged in, telling Josh about the sabotage of their schedule
by the SWALLOW agents. It was good to get it all out of her system
and she ignored the drink as she paced around the room, hands
flying, while she told Josh the whole frustrating story, sure that
someone with his business acumen and experience would have valuable
advice. She was brought up sharply only when George emitted a loud
strangled sound that made her glance toward her audience and see
the acute discomfort on George's face and the glower on Josh's.

She gave a sickly grin and sank onto the bed,
"You see what I mean about having a bad time, Josh. Ain't it
awful?"

Josh rose and turned his back to them again
as he poured another drink. "This is a little awkward, Julianne.
You realize, don't you; that all of my songs are registered with
SWALLOW?"

"They are? Well, you wouldn't want them doing
that kind of thing, would you?" Juli asked hopefully.

"Well, I admit they get a little high-handed
once in a while. I was pretty hot when they wouldn't register that
spoof I did of the CIA raiding Belize. But I sing it anyway and
they haven't said anything so far. As for policing the industry,
it's what I pay them for. Of course, I admit it seems a little
overzealous going after small clubs, especially considering how
stiff the fees are, but the distinctions are a little hard to make
under the trade laws."

"But it's just not fair, I mean—" Juli began,
despite the warning kick on the ankle from George.

"Well, no. And I admit, I hate the censorship
side of the organization. They're pretty inflexible but that's what
happens when organizations get too big. But with so many video
companies and music publishers being owned by international
conglomerates, it gets complicated trying to cover everybody under
each country's set of laws. You have to be reasonable about it.
Back when the only real venues were in this country and Canada, the
organizations we had to protect songs were good enough, but these
days . . ."

He shook his head and sighed into his
drink.

"But, Josh—think. It's censorship. Exactly
what you try to cut through with your songs. You would never have
stood for it back in the sixties."

He gave her a wry smile with precious little
humor in it. "It's like Dylan said, sweetheart. 'The Times, They
Are A-Changing.' And how. Everything is more complex now."

"I don't see why we need any of that anyway,"
George said.

Josh shrugged. "You've been struggling a long
time, George. What if one of your songs actually threatens to make
you some money? Except that where you'll make money isn't off your
own little folk recording of it, but of other people doing it on
video, computer networks, cable, in concerts, on the radio and
network television. Big companies and big-name entertainers can be
pretty casual about paying royalties to a small-time songwriter.
SWALLOW collects on your behalf. Also, they make sure none of your
material is ever performed or published without proper attribution
and they prevent your songs from being overexposed."

"Overexposed?" George asked. "You mean by
having nobodies perform your songs? Having maybe people who have to
play in pizza parlors mutilate your material? Well, gee, Josh, I
can sure understand how you would hate to have that happen."

* * *

"How dumb," the boy's sister said,
interrupting the flow of words, gestures, pictures, freezing Josh
in mid tirade in the minds of her schoolmates. "Didn't those silly
people know that it was just business? How could they expect a
successful entrepreneur like Josh to sympathize with their cut-rate
operation?"

"Oh, knock it off, Muffy," her brother said.
"Obviously they looked upon him as a mentor. It was logical for
them to expect him to advise them. Never mind her, lady. What I
want to know is, were those devils you talked about behind all the
trouble?"

"Well, sure, honey. Right at that point,
SWALLOW was just starting to show its hand with the little people
who couldn’t fight back, and the little clubs that had to close out
music because they couldn't pay up. Stuff like the censorship,
which later included almost anything with words a body could
understand, only got worse later on. But right at this point, does
anybody here see what's happening?"

"Certainly," Muffy said. "SWALLOW is very
effectively separating the bulk of labor from its obvious leaders,
the ones who would have the bargaining power to gain concessions
that would benefit the less powerful workers. But what I don't
understand is why they would want to make their prices so high and
not protect everybody? Wouldn't that make them more money and then
Josh could be friends with Juli and George and they wouldn't lose
jobs and all that icky stuff!"

"It surely should work that way, okay," the
woman agreed. "Any organization that was really out to protect
musicians wouldn't think about protectin' 'em right out of jobs,
would they? See what I told you? You can almost smell the sulfur
smokin' behind that SWALLOW outfit. Now then, shall I stop for
today or do you all want to hush and let me finish?"

"Go on," the boy said.

* * *

Juli was trying to think of something to
smooth over the thundering silence George's outburst had cast over
the conversation when someone knocked on the door.

Josh answered it.

"Dave, how you doin’ buddy?" Josh shepherded
the other man into the room so heartily you'd have thought Dave was
paying him millions, instead of merely a thousand or so, and was
carrying the paycheck in his hand.

Dave was about forty-five, fine-featured, and
handsome. His silver hair set off a cinnamon-colored tan and nicely
echoed the silver of the thin concho belt at the waist of his
expensively weathered jeans and the silver and turquoise watchband
peeking out under the cuff of his equally expensive-looking work
shirt. He looked much more like a star than Josh did. In one hand
he clenched a briefcase doing a good impersonation of a
saddlebag.

"Hate to bother you, Josh," he said, "but
I've been looking for that opening act, the Martins, and—"

"These are the Martins, Dave. Julianne,
George, Dave Meeker."

Instead of taking George's extended hand,
Meeker set the briefcase down on the bureau and began pulling out
sheaf after sheaf of papers. "Glad you got here early. This may
take a little time. We need you to fill out the withholding form,
of course, though we don't withhold for one-night stands
ordinarily, and the workman's compensation papers—do both copies
please, and print—and the waiver in case anything does
happen—that's for our insurance company—and this contract, and of
course, we'll need your equity card number." To Josh he said, "I'm
sure that having these people open for you will make a more
integrated show on the whole, Josh, but really, it is much easier
to use a company band so we don't have to go through all this
paperwork and tax hassle every time. Before long, our insurance
carrier is going to forbid us to use outside talent at all."

"I hope that doesn't include me," Josh
said.

"Well, no, of course not, but since the
company has acquired production rights nationwide, once you sign we
can consider you to be on the payroll, especially if you do whole
tours with us. The hard part is filling in with local talent
between major acts, and these warmup acts. We try to have a few
bands in each city. Of course, the alternative would be for you to
take your warmup act with you on tour, at your own expense of
course."

"I'm sure there'll be no problem," Josh said.
He was growing a little red in the face, but he was handling the
situation with tact and without an ounce of the biting sarcasm so
often prevalent in his songs. Julianne could see him forming snappy
comebacks and swallowing them. The work situation may not be so bad
for him right now because of his established reputation, but there
were obviously a few drawbacks.

She hated to add to his difficulties, but
faced with one particular question that occurred right beside her
name at the top of each questionnaire, she had to. "Josh, there is
just one tiny problem. It keeps asking for equity number and we're
not—I mean, we don't have one. Does that matter?"

"What do you mean you're not equity?" Meeker
demanded.

"You have to admit the dues are pretty
stiff," George said. "And it's not like they generate work for
us—in fact, the organizing they've done has scared off a lot of the
gigs we used to play, Elks halls and county fairs and so on."

Dave ignored him and turned to Josh. "Josh,
Josh, I thought you knew these folks, babe."

"We're fellow artists," Josh said. "I never
asked them about any of this crap before. They're wonderful
performers, write terrific songs—"

"I don't care if they're Malvina Reynolds and
Woody Guthrie come back from the grave. If they ain't Equity, we
can't use them. I'm sorry, Josh, but you ought to know that. We
could be picketed, sued, for using non-Equity people, besides being
in violation of those new federal laws." He rattled the sheaf of
paper at each of them in turn. "And it is law, you know. Not just
Equity. Laws made to protect you people. Any place that hires you
or anyone else without complying with all of the requirements is
committing a violation."

"Yes, but it was Equity that forced those
stupid laws through Congress without consulting any of us . . ."
Juli protested.

"They could hardly consult you if you weren't
members," Meeker pointed out, wagging his turquoise ring in her
face.

"Well, what do you care anyway?" she asked.
"Is your company going to buy up every lodge hall in the
country?"

Josh laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and
squeezed, but to Meeker he said, "Sorry, Dave, I never gave it a
thought. Most places I play with the house artists but my friends
here needed a break and you don't have anyone appropriate to
open."

Meeker had the grace to look abashed. "I'm
sorry too, Josh, but it's really cut and dried—nothing to do with
you or me or these people. The law is the law. We have to have
these papers filled out to satisfy federal regulations, and in
order for the papers to be processed properly, the Martins would
have to be Equity members. So I'm afraid it's back to the company
band, no matter how you feel about it." He shoved three stacks of
forms back into his briefcase, tied the concho-anchored thong that
held it shut, and departed two steps ahead of the Martins.

But as George stepped out into the hall, Josh
caught Juli's hand and said, "I'm sorry, Julianne, but Meeker does
have a point. Look, I'll pay your dues. Here's the money. Join the
Equity, then I can help you. You know that folk musicians have
always supported the unions."

"Josh, I'm sorry, but it's a lot the same
kind of problem as SWALLOW," Julianne told him. "Since the
musicians' union merged with Actors' Equity, the organization
doesn't do a thing for musicians except restrict us. Particularly
people like George and me. People who belong to other unions have a
steady employer, work the same place for years. SWALLOW and the
Equity are fine for big-name people like you who are so much in
demand that clubs will go through any amount of hassle and expense
to get you, or production companies like Meeker's will try to
monopolize you, but the pizza parlors, beer joints, and Unitarian
fellowships just aren't ready to go through all that legal
rigamarole just to give a job to a few starving musicians. I mean,
get real, who wants to fill out workman's comp papers and deal with
paying out matching social security for a fifty-dollar one-night
stand?"