"So would you shave a zero off your salary to give health care to every artist you sign?"
There’s a long pause. "I’ve never thought about it, but probably not. In fact, I absolutely wouldn’t. If I were making eight figures," he giggles, "I might."
In the lower echelon of the record business — the land of Three-Day Notices To Quit the Premises and hocked guitars — $2,000 suits could be mirrored against the $2,000 doctor bill of a local musician who hit black ice outside of Grand Rapids and lost control of the tour van. His $20 tour per-diem from the label wouldn’t cover the months he spent on his back. And suddenly the talent they’re relying on — the very Product — is broken.
"No, the talent we’re relying on has health care," he counters. "The others just have an opportunity, and if it’s accepted by the public, they’ll have their retirement, their health care, and become fabulously wealthy beyond belief."
How can his liberal conscience justify a system where only the wealthy are rewarded with basic social services? "Listen," he whispers, looking furtively to the shut door, "the only thing that’s allowed me to forgive myself is that no artist has come to me asking for health care and I’ve said no." He eyes the reeling tape recorder, sighs, then takes the plunge: "I’m fucking dead if this ever gets out that it’s me," he breathes, "but if an artist asks for health care in his contract and we want him badly enough, we give it to him. I don’t think lawyers are going to push for it, because they don’t get a commission. But after artists see this article, believe me, they’ll ask for it. And it will make the corporate heads go crazy."
Then he gets mad: "You have to understand that the entire record business is now run by minds that are not pioneers, but minds of accountants. We are all now responsible to people that do not have innovative, artistic values, minds and spirits, but spend most of their time working on projections, budgets! The best talents in the record business are just basically working for Wall Street! And they try to bribe us to go along with the whole corporate thing by giving us stock options. It doesn’t matter that you have a salary, ’cause this is worth much more. You walk around record companies and look into the major executives’ offices, and they’ve all got CNBC on their TV or on their computer. That’s all they’re thinking about all day — their share price and their option! It’s the scariest, most horrifying thing that is so antithetical to anything having to do with art. It’s just plain sickening . . . sickening."
He has sunk back into the couch now, exhausted. His voice swollen with defeat, he’s gazing over my shoulder, saying that it wasn’t like this before, it was about music. "It’s impossible to fight," he says. "You know, at one time I was interested in changing things, but not anymore. It’s just disillusion now."
Before his life got palatial, before stocks and cigars became music’s fiscal accessories, Arnold did have the strength for battle. But now it comes out like a dying wish he whispers into the ear of a trusted aide: "If I did have the fire of when I was younger," he says slowly, "I would try to hasten the demise of this corporatization. Because it will happen — sooner or later the most interesting and most powerful artists will realize that this isn’t the place for them, and they will create their own environment. The Internet will be an amazing way for artists to directly distribute their music. When I look into the future, there will be less and less power for us middlemen. We will be extinct."
The secretary slips in with a mound of papers to sign. "Arnold," I say quickly, "when you meet a young musician with such great talent that you know is going to be chewed up alive, why not just tell them what you know?"
He looks up, his hand signing without him. "I do tell them, honey."
"Then you feel less guilty if they fail?"
"When they fail."
