Subject to ARTISTS fully performing all of ARTIST’s respective obligations pursuant to this Agreement, and all of the ARTIST’s warranties and undertakings hereunder, COMPANY agrees to make to ARTIST the following non-returnable advances against royalties:
He picked up his pipe. It had been smouldering in the ashtray. The small amount of time it had lay there allowed the tar to settle in the bowl and soak up into the remaining tobacco. The smoke produced was ten times more acrid. As he fired it up we winced in anticipation of another burn.
‘The percentage is okay … but you can’t … go with … this … they will screw you royally … mark … my words.’
‘But it doesn’t say that, Seymour,’ I said. The others nodded in agreement. ‘It says non-returnable — non-returnable, right?’
‘Yes. But look at the words before it. ‘Subject to artist fully performing … That’s badly defined. They can say you didn’t fully perform and make you pay back everything. You can’t trust them.’
‘But it …’
‘Now, look. Would I tell you how to play guitar? You hired me to interpret contracts for you. That is what I do.’
He tapped his pipe on the ashtray and slowly cleaned it out.
‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I know a Queen’s Counsel. I’ll take it to him and get an opinion. Fair enough?’
We supposed so. We should have said no at every step, but each time it seemed to be just another two weeks on a very crucial point. We walked out into the world of plaintiffs and defendants.
‘I dunno,’ said Stockley. ‘I agree with you, John. But we’ve waited this long already. And it is a pretty important point. And, you know, contracts do have their own language. Maybe only lawyers understand them.’
‘I fuckin’ hate this,’ said Kerryn, as he kicked a can out into the busy mid-afternoon traffic.
‘Yeah,’ said Brod. ‘But Stockley’s right.’
‘I think that genius is full of it. But we can’t take the risk of his being right,’ said Stockley.
‘It’s a jerk-off,’ said J.L.
‘This is like The African Queen,’ I said. ‘We’re bogged down in the swamp at low tide. We think there is no escape and we lay down to die not knowing that the lake is a stone’s throw away. So, instead of waking up dead, we will be lifted up by the high tide and swept into the lake.’
‘But not until Seymour sees the African Queen’s Counsel,’ said Kerryn.
We would see what happened in two weeks. In the meantime, there were jobs to do.
As we trundled up the Hume Highway between Albury and Gundagai, on our way to Sydney, I lay on a mattress in the back of Brod’s World War II vintage Land Rover. Stretched out like fallen heroes of El Alamein, Kerryn, J.L. and I were trying to urge Brod to go faster than thirty-five. In buying the Rover, Brod had selected style over speed, comfort and utility — style, and fighting chance should we run into the Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Brod, who was quite dashing in other ways, drove with palpable anxiety. He fidgeted to make sure he was still in gear, that the choke was in, the handbrake wasn’t on, and that the rear-vision mirror was properly adjusted.
Kerryn whispered into my ear, ‘He drives like somebody’s aunty.’
‘Try telling that to Field Marshall von Rommel,’ I said.
Brod drove with his foot slightly depressing the clutch, a move that, though rough on the clutch, was an excellent defensive tactic. Nobody could make him go faster than thirty-five and, so far, despite several near-misses from behind, Broderick had got us through.
Stockley, who was up front, had given up conversation and was nodding off. But sleep, for him, was impossible, since to rest his head anywhere on the violently shaking metal was to risk severe injury.
‘Stockley,’ I offered. ‘I’ll swap places with you. I can’t sleep anyway in this rattletrap. Sorry, Brod. This very strategic rattletrap.’
‘Here,’ said Stockley, using the voice of Maury. ‘You’re number one in my book, Mr Murray. Number one.’
After we changed places, at about 3am, I started to reflect on our legal situation. Seymour had tried to up our percentage by too much. This was a forgivable error in judgment; he was, after all, only trying to get us the best possible deal. He had called into question a crucial sentence about non-returnable royalties, and he had hired a Queen’s Counsel to write an opinion on it. If all this was taking too much time, he was erring on the side of caution. That the QC had gone on vacation, and couldn’t give his opinion until after we returned from this series of final-farewell performances in Sydney, wasn’t Seymour’s fault. I didn’t like Seymour, but I shouldn’t, I thought, let that interfere with my opinion of his conduct.
On the other hand, though I was cowed by the bigness of our contractual dealings and my ignorance of law, I felt that Seymour was wrenching away our destiny by trying to make the negotiating process more arcane than it need be. I had a growing suspicion that he was like a dubious and unskilled motor mechanic who thinks he can do any work he wants to because you can’t tell he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Any complications only made his cover deeper. Maybe Seymour felt that by invoking the QC any arguments about legal syntax would be stymied. But I wasn’t so sure that law was as esoteric as engines — despite the efforts of lawyers to make it so. However, though these were concerns to keep in mind, all things that were presently being done, I thought, had to be done.
‘Where are we, driver? Any sign of the bloody Krauts?’
‘No, sir,’ said Brod. ‘We should reach Cairo at about 0800 hours.’
‘Very good, Corporal. Carry on.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘By the by, Brod. Do you know you’re in second gear?’
‘Thanks, mate.’
He changed into third, but soon after, the Rover died on a hill. The same gear ratio that enabled it to pull six-inch howitzers out of the mud, robbed it of power on the highway. Brod pushed the pedal down to the floor with a clang, clang, clanging sound. The futility of that action reminded me of The Dingoes’ efforts to throttle up and climb our current hill — Seymour and the contracts.
We arrived in Sydney at ten in the morning looking as deprived of sleep as the Rats of Tobruk. No sleep would be had before our first job, an afternoon open-air concert. As if we didn’t have pressure enough, we had extra pressure in Sydney. Our record had not been played there, yet we were known to have a big overseas deal in the offing. We were either ignored somebodies or celebrated nobodies, and no-one, least of all ourselves, knew which. And this hung like a giant question mark between us and every audience north of the Murray River.
At the concert, the radio station had thoughtfully provided a tent and free beer in huge garbage pails filled with crushed ice. Our common sense was anaesthetised by our lack of sleep, and it was a very hot and humid day — we drank deeply. When it came time to play, we were barely capable. To ourselves we were hilarious. Behind the curtain of amplified sound we shouted jokes about Aunty Broderick and the Nazi threat. I was tired and became hysterical easily. I buckled up with laughter. The audience must have thought we didn’t care if we were appreciated or not. We received polite applause as we hit the tent for another round of heavy beer drinking. Stockley stood in the corner of the tent in a pensive mood.
‘What’s the matter, mate?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, mate.’
‘You don’t look like you’re having such a good time.’
Stockley