A group or an artist shouldn't get his money until his boss gets

Host: The recording studio was dimly lit, the only light coming from the glowing dials on the old mixing console and the faint orange hum of a forgotten tube amp in the corner. Cigarette smoke curled lazily through the air, blurring the edges of reality into sepia.

Through the thick glass of the booth, a microphone hung in stillness, waiting for someone to confess into it. The faint hum of electricity was the only heartbeat left in the room.

Jack sat behind the console, sleeves rolled, a pair of headphones resting around his neck. His hands were calloused, marked by years of turning knobs and building other people’s dreams into sound. Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, watching him with an expression that wavered between empathy and irritation.

Jack: “Bobby Darin said, ‘A group or an artist shouldn’t get his money until his boss gets his.’”

He gave a half-smile — sharp, tired. “That’s the music business in one line. The art’s sacred until the invoice arrives.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re quoting scripture — the Gospel of the Exploited.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but the irony in it cut through the haze like a blade.

Jack: “Tell me I’m wrong. Every singer, every band — they come in thinking it’s about the music. And it is, for five minutes. Then it’s about contracts, percentages, recoupables.”

Jeeny: “That’s not art. That’s arithmetic.”

Jack: “Exactly. And Darin knew it. He learned fast — the boss always gets paid first. The dreamers? They get what’s left after the lights go out.”

Host: The tape reels on the console turned slowly, the soft mechanical whir filling the silence.

Jeeny walked further into the room, brushing her hand along a stack of vinyls. “You talk about it like a wound that never healed.”

Jack: “Because it didn’t. You spend years trying to make something honest, and all the world sees is the profit margin. You bleed into the microphone, and someone else bottles it and sells it with a smile.”

Jeeny: “But Darin wasn’t just bitter. He was pragmatic. He understood that business keeps the art alive — even if it hurts to admit it.”

Jack: “That’s the cruel joke. You need the machine to make the music heard. But the machine doesn’t love the music. It just loves what it earns.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are. Still producing.”

Jack: “Because love doesn’t vanish just because it’s been misused.”

Host: The sound of rain began outside — faint at first, then rhythmic, tapping against the studio windows. It gave the air a kind of ache, like a metronome for regret.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Darin was warning against — the illusion that art and purity can coexist without compromise. The truth is, art’s a transaction the moment it’s heard.”

Jack: “You mean it’s only real when it’s bought?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s only remembered when it’s shared. And sharing costs something — time, money, trust. Somebody always pays.”

Host: He looked up at her — eyes weary but bright, like a man who’s learned too much about beauty to stop believing in it.

Jack: “You know, I met Darin once. Long time ago. Backstage at the Riviera. He had that look — half star, half survivor. I asked him if he still loved the stage after everything. He said, ‘Love it? No. But it still loves me, so I keep showing up.’”

Jeeny: “That’s faith. The kind you only find in people who’ve been betrayed by what they love.”

Host: She moved closer, her reflection mixing with his in the studio glass. Two silhouettes blurred by light and memory.

Jeeny: “You ever think about quitting? Walking away from the whole circus?”

Jack: “Every damn day. But then I hear a kid’s demo — something raw, trembling, honest. And I think: maybe it’s worth protecting, even if it costs me.”

Jeeny: “So you’ve become the boss Darin was talking about.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I try to be the kind that pays the artist first.”

Host: The flicker of a neon sign outside — OPEN LATE — cast a red pulse across the glass, as though marking time between ideals and survival.

Jeeny: “You know, his quote isn’t just about business. It’s about hierarchy. About how the world always seems to pay authority before artistry.”

Jack: “Because authority promises order. Art promises truth. And truth doesn’t pay dividends.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The reel-to-reel stopped spinning with a soft click, leaving the room in stillness.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think we romanticize struggle. We talk about starving artists like it’s a noble thing. But there’s nothing noble about being robbed with a smile.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But there’s something holy in persistence. In creating anyway.”

Jack: “Even when it hurts?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. That’s the only time it’s real.”

Host: The lights dimmed, their glow falling gently over the mixing board, the empty microphone, the remnants of a thousand songs captured in air and tape.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack — Darin’s words were practical, yes. But beneath them, there’s grief. The grief of realizing that the artist’s heart and the world’s wallet will never beat in the same rhythm.”

Jack: “And yet both keep time.”

Jeeny: “Because even exploitation needs art to survive.”

Host: The two stood there in the soft hum of the studio — creators and critics, believers and cynics, joined by the same quiet reverence for what remains unbuyable.

Jack reached over, pressed the play button on the console. A rough demo filled the room — a voice trembling but pure, caught between fear and fire.

Jeeny closed her eyes.

Jack: “That’s what it’s all for. That sound. That moment before the world gets its hands on it.”

Jeeny: “And the irony?”

Jack: “It’s already priceless — and they’ll still try to put a price on it.”

Host: The camera panned slowly over the console, over the spinning reels, over their faces — lit by red neon and the ache of meaning.

And in the heartbeat of silence before the next note, Bobby Darin’s words returned — not as cynicism, but as testament:

“A group or an artist shouldn’t get his money until his boss gets his.”

Because art and commerce
will always dance the same uneasy waltz —
one driven by passion,
the other by necessity.

And yet, somewhere between the two,
in the quiet after the final chord,
there still exists a sacred truth:

the song, once sung,
belongs to everyone —
and no one at all.