“I called you all to this fine establishment today,” Nelson begins in a very regal voice, “to let you know that RGA Records wants to sign you.” He lifts his beer in the air, silently asking the rest of us to clink our bottles.

“Holy shit!”

“Fuck yeah!”

Fozzie and Tim are over the moon, as anyone in our position would be. Being signed by a big-ass label is the dream. And then there’s me—and I have doubts.

“Do we have time to think about it?” I ask.

All heads swivel toward the weirdo, which I expected.

I want to join in on the toast, because we should celebrate the fact that a label is interested. I just don’t have it in my heart.

“Yeah, of course. I want you guys to weigh all of your options before you make a decision,” Nelson says. I appreciate that he’s a levelheaded dude who gives us unbiased advice instead of trying to sway us one way or another.

I hate that my first reaction isn’t happiness. I feel like a complete dick about it. But I can’t ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that tells me signing with RGA isn’t the best road for us.

It’s no secret that Nelson has been sending our demo out and talking to various labels, since we all agreed on testing those waters just to see if there’d be any interest. We’d even flown to New York a few months ago to meet with RGA, but thought nothing came out of it.

“What’re your thoughts, man?” Fozzie asks.

“Do you really want to sign? I mean, we said we’d take a look at our options, but we haven’t really discussed everything that goes along with selling our souls.”

Tim rolls his eyes, which makes me want to punch his stupid face because I don’t even think he should have anything to do with this decision. Though, I will admit that using the term “selling our souls” may be a bit dramatic.

When I was younger, being signed by a major label was my number one goal. In my head, that was the epitome of “making it” as a musician. Until I realized, after research and talking to other artists and soul-searching for what I really want out of life—signing with a major label is not my goal anymore.

Everyone has a different path. And if the guys want to sign with RGA, maybe my path isn’t with them. Which means starting over. Again.

“No, I’m with you,” Fozzie agrees. “The game has changed. Signing might not be our best choice. We’ve got some things to work through as a band before we agree to anything.”

I lean back in my chair and blink a few times. “I thought this was your ultimate dream?”

We’ve had the discussion numerous times in the past. He thinks being with a big label means more exposure and more opportunity, which eventually leads to fame and money. I don’t agree with that. I think we could make more money by being with an indie label. Especially with how the music industry has changed over the last ten years. Plus, I don’t want to sell my soul or be someone’s puppet, and that’s the feeling I get about signing a contract.

“It was—at one point. But I’ve been thinking about it more recently. Is it really my dream? Or is it some ego bullshit, ya know?” Fozzie looks around the dark bar, then back at me. “There’s always been this voice in my head saying if a major label wants us, that means we’re special. Look at how many bands get rejected. But if they pick us: Whoa!” I laugh when Fozzie wiggles spirit fingers in front of him. “But is that real or is it a fucked-up illusion created by people struggling to keep their place in a changing industry?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. Look at how huge indies have become. Not in terms of corporate greed—but by doing right by the artists. Keeping creative control and making money. And look how many bands the big labels have screwed over? Nelson is a prime example.” Fozzie tilts his beer toward our manager.

“Fucked me over real good,” Nelson says before taking a drink.

“Fucked you how?” Tim asks, looking up from his phone.

Nelson picks up a cardboard coaster his beer was on, holds it between his middle finger and thumb and spins it. I know he hates telling the story, but it’s completely relevant to our making a decision.

“I was in a band in the nineties. Put out some EPs, toured around the U.S., Europe. We were huge in Serbia,” he says with a wink. “We signed with a big label who shall not be named. They sent us to L.A. for three months to record an album. And it released on September 10^th, 2001.”

“Sounds like the dream. So how’d they screw you?”

“Well, if you remember American history, September 11^th, 2001, was a pretty shitty day for our country. The label cut all marketing and pulled the record.”

Tim tosses his phone on the table and gives Nelson an evil eye. “Thousands of people died and you’re pissed over a record label pulling your record and marketing?”

“No, dickbag, I’m not. I’m pissed that they took away our ability to bring in revenue and then sued us for the cost of making the record. We had to pay back the cost of the producers and the songwriters that helped us, even the studio we recorded at and the place we stayed in L.A. Everything,” Nelson finishes.

“Oh.” Tim huffs, slinking down in his chair. “Sorry, man.”

“Contracts aren’t written to benefit new artists. They’re written to benefit the label. And if you don’t realize what you’re getting yourself into, you can be screwed big time,” Nelson says.

“I read about this one band who got signed by a label of the dude who was their biggest competitor. The label never planned on releasing their music. They just wanted to shut the band up for years and years. So the other guy could become famous.”

“I feel like you guys are all gloom and doom. These stories happen to the minority rather than the majority,” Tim says.

“Do you ever research things? We hear shit like this all the time from guys we know and trust,” Fozzie snaps.

“Gloom-and-doom stories aside, I, personally, don’t want to give up the control or the freedom to make the music that we want. I don’t want it overly produced or have our vision changed by suits because they think they know what’s right,” I say honestly.

I’m not trying to sound arrogant, or suggesting that people at large record labels don’t know what they’re doing. Obviously, they do. But if they want a certain sound or a certain look, a band has to conform, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want our music changed to appease the masses. That’s not what it’s about for us. Personally, I’d rather sign with a small independent label.

“Yeah, I was thinking about that, too,” Fozzie agrees.

“You guys know that Drowned World is my number one priority, but what about my other stuff? Will I be able to keep working on side projects?”

I’m constantly collaborating with others in the music scene on various projects. My latest is with a friend in DC; we’ve been recording our parts on our own and uploading it to a shared Dropbox account so we can mix it and bring it together.

I’m completely committed to my band and absolutely aware that other ventures will have to take a back seat, but if I have downtime, I need to make sure I’ll still be able to work on projects with other artists. That’s a huge deal-breaker for me.

“If Drowned World is your number one priority, why are you worried about side projects?” Tim sneers.

“Fuck you, man! At least Drowned World is a priority for me,” I lash out at him. “I put all my time and energy into this band. Can you say the same?” My heart races and I can feel the anger heating my face. I didn’t expect to have it out with Tim today, but here we are. I’m not about to sit here and let him question my commitment.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re late all the time. You’ve skipped more soundchecks than you’ve made it to. You show up high as fuck, despite us having multiple conversations about how we don’t want that shit in our band.”

“Your band,” Tim spits. “It’s always your band. I’m part of this band, too!”

“Then maybe you should fucking act like it,” Fozzie says.

Tim has a nervous habit of bouncing his knee up and down quickly. Right now, the table is shaking so hard we all have to grab our beers to make sure they don’t topple.

“I’m not signing a fucking contract with you until I see changes,” I tell him.

Tim’s demeanor changes from anger to concern. “Am I on the chopping block? Do you want me out of the band?”

“Do you even want to be part of the band?” Fozzie asks. “It’s a hell of a lot more work than showing up five minutes before a show.”

“Yes,” Tim says emphatically. “I want to be part of the band.”

Fozzie and I exchange glances. We’ve talked about getting a new bassist on multiple occasions; we’ve just been too busy to really think about it. Maybe we’re closer than we thought.

“We’ve got a few festivals coming up. Let’s see what happens,” I say, downing the rest of my beer and getting up from the table. “I’ve gotta get to work.”

These are the things that keep me awake at night. Am I starting a major life event with someone who’s not all in? Someone who sleeps through soundcheck and shows up minutes before shows, while Fozzie and I—and a few rad friends who lovingly act as our roadies—get everything set up.

I’m the one who’s put my heart and soul into our success. I’m the one who paid for studio time to make our demo EP. I’m the one who booked all of our gigs—from regular appearances at local venues to mini tours where we’d take a month and travel to places within driving distance to be seen and get people excited about us.

This band is my baby, and there’s a huge part of me that doesn’t want my success tied to Tim.

We need to see some changes from Tim before we sign this contract—if we sign the contract.