"Yes," said Bill, "I would think your recently realized attendance improvement would be a result of your own appeal to the musical tastes of the populace."
"No," said Mary, "it's mostly because I'm the mother of Jake Kingsley and Lorraine is the mother of 'Nerdly' Archer that's doing it."
"Oh please don't call him that, Mary," Lorraine said with a wince. She detested Bill's nickname.
"Sorry," Mary said, "but you know what I mean."
"Yeah," she said with a hint of bitterness. "I guess I do."
Neither Jake nor Bill bothered asking how the populace knew that the lead violinist and the piano player for the Heritage Philharmonic Orchestra were the mothers of Jake Kingsley and Bill "Nerdly" Archer, respectively. It was common knowledge throughout the northern California region thanks to multiple Heritage Register, Sacramento Bee, and San Francisco Chronicle articles. Reporters for all of these publications, as well as all of the local television station news programs in all of these cities, knew the address of every Intemperance member's parents as well as their phone numbers, regardless of how many times said phone number was changed. Though Coop and Darren's parents had been pretty much spared, Bill's, Matt's, and Jake's parents were frequently contacted either by phone or in person by various reporters wishing to do sidelines on some issue of family life or to get reaction when the band or a band member did something outrageous. The subject of Bill and Jake's musical roots had been done to death back in the early days of the Descent Into Nothing success.
"So what makes you think the increased attendance is because of us?" Jake asked.
"Oh, it's not too hard to figure out," Mary said. "Whenever we do a show these days, half the audience are young college kids and teenagers with long hair and wearing Intemperance T-shirts."
"Really?" Jake asked, surprised at the thought of their fans going to a classical music performance.
"Oh yes," agreed Lorraine. "And until you boys made a success of your band there was never a haze of marijuana smoke over the auditorium when we performed. Now it's so common that I don't even notice it anymore."
"They hold up their lighters for us too," said Mary.
Jake wasn't sure whether to apologize for this or not but both of the mothers assured him that they didn't mind, that they in fact appreciated the strange crossover of musical appreciation.
"As far as I'm concerned, you've done us a great service," Mary said. "Anything that helps introduce young people to classical music is a good thing as far as I'm concerned."
"And we're operating in the black for the first time in ten years as well," said Lorraine.
Later, as the pie dishes were being washed and the leftovers distributed between the two families, Jake found occasion to pull Pauline to the side.
"Are you doing anything tomorrow?" he asked her.
"Well," she said, considering, "seeing as how my social calendar is about as full as it always is... no, I'm not doing a damn thing. Why?"
"Do you mind if Bill and I stop by for a little bit in the afternoon?"
"Sure," she said. "What's up?"
"We've got a little idea about how we can get our contract changed. We'd like to run it by you."
Her look became immediately cynical. "There's no way to change your contract, Jake. I've told you that before. You're locked into it until it expires."
"Unless National decides to re-negotiate with us," he said.
"Why would they do that?"
"That's what we want to talk to you about. We think we found a way."
The cynical look did not disappear. "This I've gotta hear," she said. "How about noon?"
"No," Pauline said the next day at 12:10 PM. "It won't work."
They were sitting at her dining room table, turkey sandwiches and bottles of imported beer spread out before them. The well-worn copy of their contract sat in the center of the table, but Pauline had not even consulted it before making her assessment of their plan. Jake's face fell as he heard this. He had been confident that his plan not only had merit, but was unimpeachable.
"Why not?" he asked. "If we refuse to compose or record for them, they'll be left with only two choices: either sue us for breach of contract or open re-negotiation meetings. Their history proves they will go with the option that produces the most money for them."
Pauline was shaking her head through his entire statement. "That's where you're wrong," she said. "They have a third option in those circumstances and I can guarantee you they'll utilize it."
"What is the third option?" asked Bill.
"They can force you to produce music for them," she said. "Your contract unambiguously states that you are obligated to come up with new material for each contract period or you are in violation of the terms of the contract. You can't just refuse to make music for them."
Now it was Jake that was shaking his head. "Maybe you didn't understand what I was saying," he told his sister. "I know that we're violating the contract by doing this. That's the whole point. We're challenging them. We're defying them. We're going on strike. They can either sue us for breach of contract — which we understand they will win if they choose that option — or they can come to terms with us and continue to make money off of us."
"Just not as much as they're making now," Bill said.
"Right," said Jake. "But they'll still be pulling in millions of dollars per album. That's better than suing us and ruining us and getting nothing but what they manage to garnishee from us in the future."
"Jake, Bill," Pauline said, "I understand perfectly what you're saying. What you don't understand is that it won't work. Your 'crossing the line' scenario is crossing much too far over the line. They'll have you by the balls if you pull a stunt like this."
"What do you mean?" Jake asked.
"Do you remember when you were having the dispute with them about choreographing your concerts?" she asked.
"Yes," Jake said. "That's part of what I'm basing this on."
"You were in the right there," Pauline said. "It doesn't say anywhere in your contract that they can dictate dance moves and choreography for your shows. They can make an argument, perhaps, that the order of musical performance clause allows such dictation but it's a precarious argument at best. In all likelihood, a judge would have ruled that they do not have that right based on the wording of your contract. In any case, the burden of proof would be resting on them. You told their lawyers that you would submit to the choreography if they got a judge to order you to, right?"
"Right," said Jake. "That was on your advice."
"And it was good advice," she said. "They caved in, didn't they?"
"Right," said Jake. "So wouldn't they cave on this issue as well?"
"No," she said. "You're not seeing the difference here. With the choreography issue, it wasn't specifically spelled out that they could force you to do that. The challenge to take it to a judge was a good one because they knew that if they did, he would more than likely tell them to take a flying fuck. But your contract does specifically state that you have to come up with new material for each contract period. If you refuse to do that, they will go to a judge and he will order you to fulfill the terms of your contract. He will have no choice. The terms are plainly spelled out."
"So what if a judge does order us to come up with new material?" Jake asked. "That still leaves us in the same scenario we started with. We refuse and National is forced to choose between re-negotiation and suing us for breach of contract. I don't see how involving the judge changes anything."
"That's because you're not a lawyer and you don't understand how the system works," said Pauline. "You can't refuse to do what a judge says. If he orders you to come up with new material, than you have to come up with new material."
"Or what?" Jake asked, still not seeing where she was coming from.