Chapter 16
We survived that show. Although Zack was still feeling the effects of the alcohol, we managed to play a good show.
A great show, actually.
And I knew Zack would probably only remember bits and pieces…but the venue felt so raw in the best of ways and our sound matched--meaning the audience just ate it all up. They were my favorite audience of that tour.
And Zack, still numb, likely didn’t experience it the way the rest of us did.
Knowing that I’d have to broach the subject at some point, I wanted to wait for the right time—and I’d be alert for it. Although I’d considered talking with Braden and Cy, I didn’t want Zack to feel like we were ganging up on him.
For his part, Mick lectured the hell out of him the next day—our day off. He told Zack that, for the rest of the tour, he would not be allowed to be alone. “You did this to yourself.”
I’d expected Zack to fight back—but he didn’t. He simply nodded and looked to the floor like a dog who’d gotten in the trash and made a mess, only to be chastised by its owner.
I thought that might be a good sign—not just that Zack respected Mick but that he cared about our growing fanbase…and cared enough about himself to try.
Hung over, Zack asked to spend the day in his room and Mick actually put a couple of roadies on guard duty outside his room to take turns keeping an eye on our frontman. They bitched about it until Mick offered them extra pay.
Again, I bit my lip because it reminded me about all the money we were spending, and I had no idea if we were recouping it in earnings.
So even though I tagged along with Cy and Braden to see some of the sights of Chicago, my mind was racing, my gut churning as I wondered about the money and worried about Zack.
Early the next morning, we were all packed in the bus heading to Detroit for our next show. Almost everyone went back to sleep except for one of the road crew on his phone and Mick at the front, chatting with the bus driver.
This was my opportunity.
After walking to the front of the bus, I sat in the seat across the aisle from Mick. I said “Hey” to both him and the bus driver.
“You’re not gonna get more sleep like the rest of your gang?”
“I can’t.”
“This bus isn’t the smoothest ride,” the driver said as if in apology.
“I don’t think that’s your fault.” He smiled at me but didn’t say another word.
Mick raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t come up here for idle chitchat, did you, kid?”
I hoped my return smile at Mick would butter him up for what I was about to ask. “Am I that obvious?”
“Considering you’ve never joined me an’ Schultz for a conversation…”
“Yeah, okay.” I let out a soft breath. I didn’t want to convey my worry, but I hoped to get what I needed from this man. “I, um, know this might be an odd request, but I was wanting to kind of tally our expenses and earnings to see what they look like.”
He cocked his head and grinned. “Good luck with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can give you copies of the settlement sheets, but I don’t know when we’ll have numbers from merch—and you won’t get any numbers about sales from the label until they release them.”
“And when’s that?”
“They usually do it quarterly.”
I looked out of the large windshield at the crowded city street in front of us.
I’d lost track of the days, but it was obvious that we were in rush hour traffic, and I wondered when we’d get out of it.
So I wouldn’t be able to crunch numbers like I’d wanted—but maybe I could still get an idea of what we were earning at least from the tour.
Then I could try estimating merch and sales.
But I needed something…because watching all the money we spent was making me queasy.
Nodding, I asked, “When do you think you could get me those?”
“What? The settlement sheets?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re really wanting to do this?” This time, I cocked my head as if challenging him. “All right. I’ve got ‘em here in this case—but you can’t have the originals.”
“Can I take a picture of them with my phone?”
“Yep.”
The numbers were mind-boggling, and I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around them while I took pictures.
But I could tell almost immediately that, once we got to headliner status, we’d be making way more than now.
From what I could tell, the venues took about a third of gross ticket sales, and then we had to split what was left with the other two bands—but our band wasn’t even making five thousand dollars a show.
Back in Denver, we would have shit our pants if we’d made that kind of money each night—but it was just the four of us back then.
Now, we had a crew and other expenses and so goddamned many of them.
But I was determined to figure out if we were profitable or not.
And I was afraid the answer was going to be the latter.
It wasn’t until our next day off—a Thursday—that I was able to dig into the numbers.
We were in Nashville and had a show the following night, but the drive there had been long and uncomfortable, so none of us really wanted to check out any of the sights, which was a bummer.
We’d been in two major music cities in the space of a week and hadn’t been able to absorb any of their culture.
But, by that evening, I had used up several pages in the lone notebook I’d bought at a Walmart somewhere on the road. On these pages was a rough estimate of our expenses, and those numbers freaked me out enough to call a band meeting.
Just the band.
We were eating sandwiches and chips and Cy had already shuffled the cards, hoping to get in a few games before we went to bed. And, although Zack had been stone-cold sober on stage since the Chicago incident, I could smell liquor on his breath now.
I’d have to deal with that another day…but I hadn’t yet had the chance. And, if I didn’t address the money issue, we might all be fucked.
Zack said, “So what’s so important about the money that we have to talk about it on our day off?”
“I’m nervous about how the numbers add up.
” When Zack raised an eyebrow, I continued.
“Okay…let’s look at the debt. We’ll be on the road a total of 27 days—and every single day there are costs: hotels, gas, per diems, the occasional group meals, the wages of the crew, Mick, and the bus driver, and probably other shit I haven’t even thought of. But I started there.”
Cy said, “Show us what you have.”
I opened my notebook. “There are eleven of us altogether,” I said, hoping I didn’t have to show my math—but it was the four of us in the band, Mick, five roadies, and the bus driver. “So let’s start with per diems. I’m going to assume they’re giving us all the same per diem.”
“Which ain’t shit,” Zack interjected.
“Yeah, but it adds up. Two hundred a week times eleven for four weeks equals $8,800.”
Braden’s eyes grew wide. “Whoa.”
“That’s just the beginning. Now let’s look at hotels. I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but Mick has his own room.”
Cy put down his sandwich. “He does?”
“Yeah—but if he didn’t, that would put three in a room…which might be weird or uncomfortable.”
“One of us should—”
“Let’s not sidetrack here. Regardless, that means we’re booking six hotel rooms almost every night.
I know we’re not staying anywhere fancy, but even the budget hotels where we’re staying add up.
I don’t have the receipts and I haven’t asked Mick yet, but I looked up the average price for a lot of the places we’ve already stayed, and I estimated it at around eighty dollars a night for a room—but it could be more.
Multiply that times six rooms times twenty-seven days—”
Braden said “Holy shit” before I could give the total.
“And that’s almost $13,000.”
“Okay, Dani,” Zack said, sitting back on the bed, leaning against the wall, “just cut to the chase. I don’t need to hear line-by-line items.”
“Fine.” I let out a slow breath and turned two pages in the notebook where I had computed the grand total. “I know some of my numbers might be off, but we’re looking at total expenses of between $180,000 to $200,000.”
“Jesus,” Cy said, standing up so he could look at the notebook over my shoulder, “you put a lot of thought into this.”
Braden’s brown eyes were wide, as if he’d just seen a ghost. “I can’t even imagine that kind of money.”
Zack said, “Guys, we knew there’d be expenses. It’s the cost of touring. We’re making money. We just aren’t seeing it yet.”
“Okay, then,” I said, “let’s move on to earnings. I got the settlement sheets from Mick.”
“What are those?” Braden asked.
“They’re basically an accounting of total receipts from the show—what the show grossed minus expenses.
Without going into excruciating detail,” I said, looking pointedly at Zack, who seemed like he couldn’t care less, “our band is netting an average of about five-thousand per show.” I didn’t miss Braden’s eyes growing wide again, but this time with a twinkle.
“But don’t get all excited about that. Some venues pay a little more and some a little less, so I used actual numbers for the sheets I have and estimated for the rest. All together, for the tour itself—only sixteen shows, guys—we’re probably going to earn $80,000. ”
Cy shouted, “That’s bullshit!”
Frowning, I simply nodded.
“Can I see the spreadsheets—or whatever you called them?”
Picking up my phone, I tapped in the passcode. “The settlement sheets. Yeah, I took pictures of them. Do you want me to text them to—”
“Can I just look at one?”
Handing him my phone, I said, “Yeah.”
While Cy scrutinized the sheet, using his fingers to move the photo around and zoom in and out, Zack sat back up. “It’s the cost of business. It’ll all even out in the long run.”
Cy was a ball of fury when he spoke. Still looking at the phone, he said, “You think so? Maybe when we’re headliners like LFS, but right now, we’re getting the scraps. Gross ticket sales, a little over $100,000—and all we fuckin’ get is $5,000. That’s a load of horseshit.”
If it hadn’t been such a serious topic, I might have laughed at Cy’s words. But he was right. We were definitely getting the short end of the stick.
“Why so little?” Braden asked.
“So there’s all these deductions,” Cy said, squinting at my phone. “Shit like facility and promoter fees, security and staffing, and all kinds of bullshit. So right off the top, a third of it’s gone. Then they divvy up the rest, and LFS takes eighty-fucking-percent.”
“Come on, man,” Zack said. “That’ll be us someday. They’re the ones drawing in the crowds. Hardly anyone knows us yet—so we’re paying for exposure.”
“Yeah, that might be true, but do you wanna go back to washing dishes after this goddamn tour? ‘Cause that looks like what’s gonna happen. If Dani’s numbers are right, we’re gonna owe the record company after all this.”
Zack finally stood, towering over us all. “Yeah, but you haven’t accounted for merch or record sales or any of that shit. We have no idea about any of that.”
Cy asked, “The way I understand it, we won’t see a dime until all these costs are paid back.”
“Yeah,” I said, standing up as well, “and this doesn’t even count the other costs—studio time, shooting the video—”
“Fuck,” Braden breathed. “I forgot about that stuff.”
I dropped the notebook and it fell on the bed. “Yeah. Now you see why I’m freaking out.”
“You know what?” Zack asked. “I’ll wash dishes when we get back to Denver if that’s what it takes.
I’ll start scheduling shows again too, because I guarantee we could play bigger venues when we get back.
We’ve put out a fucking album. People are gonna want to see us. And do you have any better ideas?”
“I do,” Cy said, storming out of the room.
“What the hell is he doing?” I asked.
“Great job, Dani,” Zack said.
“Fuck you. You don’t even give a shit—and you should.”
“You need to have faith in the process.”
But I didn’t. Not after seeing all the numbers. What if our album wasn’t selling? What if nobody was buying our merch? What if no one was streaming our music?
That would mean we’d never earn anything…
that we would have been better off playing all those different little venues back in Denver where we actually earned a little here and there.
Already I was rethinking my entire path—because if this was all we would get with sold-out shows, we wouldn’t have a chance.
Something Cy hadn’t mentioned was how much the mid-tier band took from receipts, and it wasn’t much more than we did…
which meant even a second or third album might not make much difference.
“It’s hard when I see the cold numbers,” I said to my friend, wishing I could get through to him.
“This tour was supposed to be our big break—and you’re pissing all over it.” Zack’s words were like a knife to my heart. But worse was watching him walk toward the door. “I can’t listen to any more of this.”
Knowing he was probably going to resume drinking, I said, “Zack, just—”
“Nope. I’m done.”
When the door closed behind him, Braden said, “Don’t let him bother you. He might not want to hear it, but I don’t want to live in the dark pretending everything’s okay.” When Cy knocked on the door, Braden let him in. “Where’d you go?”
“I wanted to ask Mick about our other earnings. He said the label handles all that—and he tried to shut the door on me, but I kept digging. We should know about merch sales and net earnings by the end of the tour, but album sales and stuff we probably won’t know until January.”
“January?” Braden repeated. “Why that long?”
“He said they report quarterly.”
“So…” I said, plopping on the bed, causing a chip to fall off my paper plate.
I felt more defeated than when I’d started.
I’d brought it up, hoping to have a discussion about how to cut costs—but now I didn’t see how that could be done.
“From the outside, it looks like we’re killing it—sold out shows, and our first single getting radio play.
And the fans seem to be eating it up…and yet it looks like we’ll end this tour deeper in debt than when we started. ”
Cy’s voice still had an angry edge, but he sat back down in the chair he’d been in earlier.
“But maybe Zack has the right idea. I don’t want to think about this shit when I’m on stage.
I need to be focused on the art and on making fans love us.
Maybe the money will come.” Braden sat down in the other chair next to him. “How much did you say LFS’s cut is?”
“Eighty percent of net ticket sales.”
“Then maybe we just need to hold out till we’re as big as they are.”
The question in my mind was if we could make it till then.