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"It was probably one of the worst years of my life, period," he says. "Broken backs and all the work we put into the band, and it all fell apart. It was all stuff that was beyond our control."
If 1998 is to be considered Hulett's worst-ever year, though, 1996 and 1997 might garner similarly dubious titles, as each brought their own unique disappointments. With a two-record deal with Los Angeles-based BYO Records and a buzz surrounding the fledgling band, Automatic 7 promised to be one of the acts that mattered amid a crop of prefabricated punk. Hulett and company put in serious time on the road in the hope of finding an audience for its style, a mixture of heartfelt lyrics with aggressive pop-punk styling that was both intelligent and musically substantive -- i.e., far removed from more formulaic and commercially minded East Bay acts. Before too long, however, the realities of the record industry began to cast a pallor on the group's hopes. While on tour with Face to Face, Hulett says he and his bandmates could never find their album in stores, no matter what part of the country they visited. Automatic 7 quickly found itself disillusioned with BYO's efforts to get things rolling on the distribution front.
2 p.m., Sunday, September 3
"We were real unhappy with them, being on that label," Hulett says. "With all the work we were doing, we felt like they weren't stepping up to the plate and matching the work that we were putting into the band."
Feeling somewhat betrayed by BYO, the group began to sever ties with the imprint upon returning home from the tour. While the legend of artist-friendly independents makes terminating a soured contract sound easier than scoring a free beer on a brewery tour -- especially when dealing with a label serving the punk scene -- the band soon discovered otherwise. Tied up in an embittered legal joust with BYO's attorneys, Automatic 7 wouldn't tour, let alone record, for the majority of 1996 while it took a quick-and-dirty course in entertainment law and negotiated a labyrinth of contracts and lawyers.
"The way they preach all their little punk-rock ethics, you would think they wouldn't be like that," Hulett says with dismay. "They ruined us for about a year with lawyers and all that."
By the time Hulett and company completely severed relations with BYO, they were experiencing some industry-induced fatigue. They also began to reconsider the punk-rock party line that dictated, unequivocally, that punk acts and major labels were mutually exclusive entities and that if you wanted to preserve your punk credibility, you must never, ever entertain thoughts of merging with a major-label devil. When A&M Records swooped in and started talking contract, the bandmembers -- itching to get back down to the business of rock -- signed with an impatient lack of careful consideration. It's a decision they still regret.
"It was just out of frustration of dealing with the record industry," Hulett says of the band's decision to throw in with A&M. "We really thought it would be a relief to just focus on the music and get away from contracts and things like that. That was a mistake," he says, laughing. "It just caused more problems, and we were stupid."
Hulett and company -- bassist Nic Nifoussi and drummer Ray Mehlbaum -- rang in 1997 with a fresh contract and began working on a follow-up record, though they soon discovered that the freedom they enjoyed on BYO wasn't the norm. Nagging A&R men and other label types quickly cramped the band's style; an album, one Hulett calls "a piece-of-shit, crappy-ass record," was recorded and mixed, much to the bandmembers' disdain. When the group caught wind of the Universal-Polygram merger, it sprung on the chance to release itself from yet another contract. By early 1998, with the closure of A&M pending, Automatic's second recording was shelved indefinitely while the band escaped from the label's dying grasp.
It might seem that Hulett should have been prepared for some record-label runaround after his experience with the BYO fiasco. But he's even more embittered over his struggle with A&M. "We kind of got sucked into it by being stupid," he says. "It's a classic story. It's 'Sign these papers and everything will be fine. You guys will be stoked and be able to make music and do anything you want.' That's just not how it is. You really do sell your soul to the devil when you sign those deals."