The offices of Ithaca Records were two floors down Duke walked in, the stiffness of the edit bay still clinging to his body.
He found Walsh in his office, the veteran music executive Duke had poached, was a controlled frenzy a man who lived entirely in the present tense.
He was hunched over a massive reel-to-reel machine, tapping his foot and simultaneously initialing a stack of invoices.
"Duke, sit down," Walsh shouted over the music, not bothering to turn it down.
"Listen to this bass line, this is the B-side. This is what Fogerty wants to get on his next album."
The song blasting from the speakers was his label's Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Duke nodded along, appreciating the sound casually.
Walsh finally muted the speaker and threw his pen onto the desk before pulling out the papers that Duke came for.
"Duke, movies are a gamble that pays in two years; music is cash that pays in two weeks."
Duke took a seat, the physical weight of the Marvel loan pressing down on him. "Show me the numbers, Walsh."
Walsh immediately slid a crisp, new ledger across the desk. It was divided into two columns: Revenue Generated and Capital Required.
"CCR is the MVP," Walsh said, tracing a finger down the column. "We are clearing about $50,000 a week right now, net. 'Proud Mary' is global, and the second album is on pre-order. Low overhead, and an insane return for a debut act."
Duke looked at the figure $50,000. He did the math in his head instantly: $200,000 a month. It was an astonishing sum for a new label and a debut rock band.
And it was utterly, terrifyingly insufficient.
The principal and interest on the Marvel acquisition loan, combined with the ongoing production costs for True Grit and the increased spending on Easy Rider post-production, required a minimum burn rate of nearly 380k dollars a month.
The satisfaction drained out of Duke, replaced by a cold, calculating dread. The debt was still too heavy.
"That's fantastic for a single act, Walsh. It's a miracle," Duke said, his voice quiet against the residual hum of the stereo.
"But it's one act. If Fogerty gets writer's block, if the band falls apart, or if the next album stalls, this revenue stream vanishes overnight. And we both know that 50,000$ a week is a fraction of the debt we just took on for that comic book company."
Walsh leaned back, crossing his arms. He understood the problem perfectly. "I agree. The market is shifting toward pop, toward younger acts that sell tickets and merchandise."
"And that's where the Jackson 5 act comes in," Duke responded.
Duke stopped, his eyes intense. "This Marvel deal, the Easy Rider cost overruns they've taught me that our entire enterprise is unsound."
"I'll pack a bag tonight," Walsh said. "I'll book a flight to Gary tomorrow. I'll make the pitch, and discuss with Joe about their songs or whether we'll need songwriters."
"You have it then," Duke confirmed.
"Got it," Walsh said, already halfway out the door.
"Wait, also tell the CCR guys they're doing a good work," Duke said, allowing a flash of genuine, non-financial appreciation.
Duke watched Walsh leave, the bass from the speakers kicking back in.
He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the high back of the chair.
He was working on fixing the liability of Easy Rider post-production and was also trying to establish the path for long-term liquidity in Ithaca Records with The Jacksons 5.
The Marvel debt was still massive, but he had time to pay it off still.
He did, however had to prove the value of that speculative asset immediately.
He was going to have to go to New York in a few days to face and convince a group of cynical, overworked artists, to work more on new heroes since we Ithaca needs to expand production to then increase revenue with distribution.
All of that without increasing salaries in the early stage.(Surprisingly capitalist moment)
---
The Ithaca production offices in Burbank were less a Hollywood studio and more a shooting set loud, slightly disorganized, yet operating with a surprising clarity.
At the center of the organized chaos sat Steven Spielberg, who had found himself promoted by default into the role of Production General Manager after doing a good job on Easy Rider.
Spielberg was juggling three projects simultaneously, each representing a massive financial outlay and a distinct logistical nightmare:
-Easy Rider:
The immediate problem. His job here was entirely protective: running interference, reviewing daily edits and, most critically, collaborate with a Music Supervisor to clear the licensing rights for the dozens of expensive rock songs that Duke had demanded stay in the cut.
-Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid:
The next big budget project. Steve McQueen was attached, and McQueen was a logistical issue, his contract rider was pages long, specifying everything from his preferred brand of motorcycle tires for promotional shoots to his exact shooting hours.
Pre-production meant coordinating locations across four states, negotiating contracts for major supporting roles, and, crucially, finalizing a budget that could withstand McQueen's inevitable demands for reshoots.
McQueen's contract also asked for 200 jeans and cleaning products, which Spielberg just found plainly weird.
-True Grit:
John Wayne was committed, but his schedule was a monumental, immovable object.
Pre-production here involved delicate negotiations with Paramount, securing a veteran director, and beginning the slow, arduous process of building elaborate period sets in Colorado which Jensen was overseeing.
Spielberg's office wasn't decorated with movie posters; it was dominated by a colossal, four-foot-wide whiteboard, color-coded and meticulously organized.
Red Ink – EASY RIDER: Urgent. Final soundtrack master due June 15. Hopper/Fonda calls logged: 14 (declined).
Blue Ink – BUTCH CASSIDY: McQueen: requires custom-built air-conditioned trailer (approved). Location scout: Utah or Colorado? (Hold for budget confirmation).
Green Ink – TRUE GRIT: Director search: Henry Hathaway (negotiating). Wayne's availability: Oct 15-Dec 20 ONLY. Final script revision deadline: Sept 1.
Spielberg sat at his desk, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the A/C was often sacrificed to save money but his demeanor was calm.
He was on the phone with a studio lawyer, discussing the arcane world of music clearance rights.
"No, I understand, but you got to understand me too," Spielberg said into the receiver, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "We need that track cleared by Monday, we can't miss the editing window."
He hung up, sighed, and immediately picked up the phone again. This time, it was a call from the location scout for Butch Cassidy.
"The Rigdway crew is asking for an extra five hundred a day for security because of the equipment," the voice crackled.
Spielberg reached for a small, leather-bound notebook his unofficial ledger. "Don't approve it. Counter with something lower. Use the film and John Wayner as local leverage we can't overspend before production even starts."
He put the phone down, then immediately turned to his assistant, Jane.
"Jane, please get me John Wayne's agent. Tell him the True Grit director meeting is set for Friday, but he needs to bring the finalized script revisions."
"We cannot, under any circumstances, allow any changes to the character or the shooting schedule after the Wayne contract is finalized."
Later that afternoon, a memo arrived from David Chen, Duke's CFO, regarding the tight Easy Rider budget.
'The current budget overdraft for music clearance is 180%. We are currently funding this out of the reserves earmarked for True Grit pre-production. This is highly risky. Your ability to negotiate down the licensing fees is paramount. Remember: every dollar we spend now is a dollar we do not have for the Marvel debt service.'
Spielberg read the memo with a headache.
He picked up the phone to call the licensing lawyer again. "Tell Steppenwolf's people we'll license 'Born to Be Wild' for $7,000 upfront now or if they don't want to then to reject us now to find an alternative."
---
Goldberg, the head of Ithaca Distribution, operated out of an office that felt like a permanent war office. His walls were covered in maps of the United States, marked with pushpins indicating theater chains, independent operators, and, most importantly, drive-in theaters.
Goldberg's problem was simple: Ithaca had content but they lacked a reliable widespread delivery network.
The success of the distribution division now rested on two critical, immediate targets The Night of the Living Dead project and securing long-term regional partners.
Night of the living Dead is a low-budget, black-and-white zombie film that was clearly intended for drive-ins.
Drive-in theaters were the perfect loophole. They were vast, decentralized, mostly independent, and desperate for cheap, marketable content, especially during the warm fall.
They were the bottom rung of the exhibition ladder, but they represented volume.
Goldberg had spent weeks on the road and on the phone, manually stitching together a network.
He targeted the South, the Midwest, and the rural West places where the independent theater owners were furthest removed from the influence of the major studios.
"I just locked in the Gulf Coast circuit," Goldberg told his assistant, slamming the phone down with a satisfying bang.
"That's 40 screens across Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana. We are at 280 drive-ins confirmed for the October 1 launch."
His assistant, Katz, checked the map. "Still short of the 300 target."
"I know. Let's try again with the Mid-States guys again."
By the end of the day, Goldberg hit 308 drive-ins confirmed for the opening.(Im trying to use other people POV's more)
As for securing regional chains that was another matter.
The drive-ins were temporary, high-volume, low-margin business.
The structural foundation Ithaca Production really needed were distribution agreements with reliable regional theater chains companies that owned multiple, respectable indoor venues that could handle first-run content like Butch Cassidy and True Grit.
That way they wouldnt have to collaborate with a big studio for distribution again.
The biggest hurdle was credibility.
Why should a chain in Texas or Ohio trust a start-up over the established, reliable films from Fox or Paramount, or even the films from studios stablished years ago.
The answer lay in the Studio deals Duke had secured in the year.
"Look at the contract," Goldberg told Sam Miller, the wary owner of the Heartland Cinema circuit, over a tense lunch in Chicago. "Paramount, a member of the Big Studio, is distributing several movies produced by our company."
Goldberg leaned in. "Ithaca can guarantee you the best content first and we offer long-term, exclusive territorial agreements to big regional players."
Crucially, Goldberg offered to pay a slightly better percentage on the box office splits, and guaranteed consistent content flow—a constant supply of films, meaning fewer dark days for the theaters.
"We are building a distribution system for the next generation of cinema, Mr. Miller," Goldberg finished.
Miller stared at the contract and finally decided to sign. (I'm not going to focus much on the nitty gritty of distribution.)
By the end of the month, Goldberg had secured exclusive distribution agreements with four key regional circuits spanning the Southeast, the industrial Midwest, and parts of the West Coast.
Duke received the summary report from Chen in his small, temporary office in New York City.
The reports detailed Spielberg's success in consolidating the production schedule and Goldberg's triumph in distribution.
Duke finally put the Marvel trip on the agenda, it was time to carry reforms and enhance profitability on the asset that had got them into debt.
---
Yo