Right about the time the band’s miracle tune escaped the petri dish and went viral, the agents showed up in tailored suits with calculators and suddenly every show was worth twenty-five grand, give or take a moral compromise. And that’s when Todd got vaporized. Not because he played a wrong note or insulted the drummer’s haircut. No. Todd committed the ultimate crime. He remembered arithmetic.

He gave an interview where he said, more or less, “Funny thing. When we were making a hundred bucks a night, we split it five ways because, surprise, there were five of us. But now that the money truck arrived, Stanley and Bill appear to have a deep spiritual connection to ninety percent of the publishing.”

It turns out success is a delicate ecosystem. You can survive bad gigs, broken vans, and gas station cuisine, but you cannot survive pointing out the math once the zeros start multiplying. That kind of observation introduces what we in the technical community call “reality,” and reality is not a popular ingredient in the modern music business. Todd was shown the door. The lesson, if you need one, is simple. In the early days, bands are communes. Later, they become corporations. And somewhere in between, if you’re not careful, you become the guy who notices the transition out loud.