Here Comes Success

Most popular music biographies, whether in print or on film, have the same lacuna. They deal well with the pre-fame years. This period is often covered in great detail, particularly in musicians’ autobiographies, which may say something about the arrested development that fame forces upon its recipients. Music biographies also deal reasonably well with the years of the fame, albeit that this period frequently turns out to be more dull than the pre-fame years.

What is missing or what tends to be obfuscated is how this fame is achieved. There is usually a quick leap between obscurity and mass adulation. This can be frustrating, particularly for those who want to have similar success. The aspirant musician is left with no clue as to how it is achieved.

            There are various possible reasons why the attainment of success is glossed over. One is that artists and their employers would like it to be mystified. The work that goes into making it is either more prosaic or more undignified than they would want to be made known. Another reason is that the success might not be as ‘popular’ as it has commonly appeared. The cash nexus between the artist and fan might be superseded by various behind-the-scenes deals.

            Or perhaps the attainment of success genuinely is peculiar. Artists may well have made it without knowing quite what has happened. One of the filmic conventions for demonstrating rapid success is to show a montage sequence of escalating hysteria, accompanied by swirling media headlines documenting the artist’s rise. I used to be frustrated with these, but have come to think that this maybe is how success feels. Take-off can be so sudden that it feels as though it has taken place in jump cuts. Meanwhile, the newspaper headlines neatly summarise the role of the media in both covering and amplifying success.

            The second episode of ‘Cilla’ was on British television last night. This three-part drama documentary is charting the career of the singer Cilla Black. The first episode was concerned with her pre-fame years. Last night’s episode documented the arrival of fame. Unusually, it was more interesting than the early years. It also made a better stab than most at communicating how the attainment of success feels. It helped that the great Sheridan Smith was playing the lead role. It also helped that the true Cilla story contains elements that are both dramatic and sudden. She moved quickly from being on the fringes of the Beatles’ scene (famously being the cloakroom attendant at the Cavern Club) to being a signed recording artist.

            That said, the programme glossed over a great deal and included much dramatic licence. Although Cilla was shown in the recording studio, there was no indication that she promoted her releases. Instead, she was shown back in Liverpool, waiting for news from the distant metropolis. She received this news via a public call box. While there might have been an element of truth in this, surely she could have listened to the chart run-down on a radio. Nevertheless, I found myself sharing her elation when she heard that she had made it to number one. I found myself thinking, yes, that is what it must feel like. This is because it showed Cilla on the cusp and in-between. It was her who had made the hit record, but its ascension was happening apart from her, while she remained in her old world. The phone box was a portal to new places and to different time-frames, just as it is in Dr Who. Maybe I just want the mystification to remain.

Fight for Your Right to Equitable Remuneration!

The British Copyright Act of 1911 contains a crucial line. Clause 19(1) states that ‘Copyright shall subsist in records, perforated rolls, and other contrivances by means of which sounds may be mechanically reproduced, in like manner as if such contrivances were musical works’. In order to establish a songwriting copyright in relation to sound recordings (and other ‘mechanical’ contrivances) there was a need to equate records with sheet music, i.e. ‘musical works’. Artistic copyright was strongest in relation to the printed word or score. Here, authors and their publishers received copyright income in relation to each copy sold. Consequently, one of the methods used to establish this equivalence between sheet music and sound recordings was to claim that the groove of a record was a form of writing (see ‘Audio Books’ for further details).

As a result of clause 19(1), songwriters received a copyright share in record sales, just as they had done in sheet music. It was originally deemed that 5% of the retail price of record should go to the authors of musical works. In anticipation of this measure, various ‘mechanical’ copyright collection societies were formed. These eventually morphed into the Mechanical-Copyright Protection Society (MCPS), which was established in 1924.

There was another consequence of the Copyright Act. Despite its intentions, it demonstrated that there were differences between mechanical reproduction and musical works. When it came to musical works, the author of the work was deemed to be the songwriter. Songwriters were therefore the ‘first owners’ of these works and were free to exercise their rights as they wished. Clause 19(1) crated a separate copyright for mechanical reproducers, now commonly referred to as sound recording copyright. The owners of this copyright were not the songwriters, however, nor were they usually the performers who appeared on the records. Clause 19(1) instead decided that ‘the owner of such original plate [the master copy of the record] at the time when such plate was made shall be deemed to be the author of the work’. The owners of these plates were the record companies. Accordingly, they were regarded as the first owners of the sound recording copyright.

Today, most recording artists receive payment in the form of advances from their record companies. If they recoup those advances, they also receive royalties. As Peter Martland has outlined, there was a different method of paying popular musicians and singers during the first three decades of the twentieth century. While a few opera singers and classical musicians received royalties, this was rare for popular artists. The most successful of these might be paid a yearly retainer to record exclusively for a record company. When it came to making records they would also receive a session fee but no royalties. Lesser-known popular artists would receive session fees only. Essentially, they were being paid a one-off sum to perform in a recording studio.

At the time of the 1911 Copyright Act, these recorded performances were usually destined for domestic consumption: most records were played in people’s homes. In the coming years recorded performances increasingly came to be heard in performance contexts. As reproduction technology improved, records were more regularly played in public spaces. They also began to be broadcast, forming part of the repertoire of radio networks from the early 1920s onwards. And by the late 1920s recordings could be heard in films.

By this time the performance right for musical works was beginning to be established. The Performing Right Society (PRS) had been formed to administer this right in 1914 and had gradually gained converts amongst songwriters, composers and publishing companies. With the advent of new technologies, performance right income became increasingly important. However, despite the desire of clause 19(1) to establish copyright parity between mechanical reproduction and musical works, it was not generally assumed that this right existed in relation to sound recordings.

In 1933 the Gramophone Company brought a test case to clarify this point. Carwadine & Co had been playing recorded music in their coffee shops; the Gramophone Company deemed this to be a breach of their performing rights. In the resulting court case it was ruled in the record company’s favour that clause 19(1) did warrant a performing right in sound recordings. In the following year Britain’s two major record companies, the Gramophone Company (which by then had become EMI) and Decca Records, joined forces to create Phonographic Performance Ltd (PPL) to administer the performing right in sound recordings.

As the owners of sound recording copyrights, record companies were now legally entitled to all the performance right income earned by their records. The recording artists, who they had hired to perform on these records, were not due any money when these records were themselves ‘performed’. What followed is one of the quirks of copyright law. The first owners of the sound recording copyright shared their performance income with their recording artists even though, initially at least, there was no legal requirement for them to do so.

According to PPL’s own history, it was their choice to give the artists a share of this income. In their publicity materials they state, ‘This intelligent and far-sighted decision was particularly remarkable because of its voluntarily nature, bearing in mind that there was no legislative or other external pressure on PPL at the time’. In its early years PPL allocated 80% of its income to record companies and 20% to the artists on their records. These splits were amended in 1946; henceforth 67.5% went to the record companies, 20% to featured artists, and 12.5% to the Musicians’ Union (MU).

PPL also came under external pressure. Stephen Barnard believes that it was, in fact, the MU who were responsible for artists receiving a share of performance income. He has written that ‘Under the original [PPL] agreement, revenue received for public performance of records went direct to the participating companies, but this was modified in 1935 under pressure from the MU, whose members could in law claim no royalties for the public performance of their recorded work (the copyright resting with the companies themselves)’. He adds that it was ‘New negotiations between PPL and the MU’ that resulted in the share allocated to the MU in 1946. The MU’s position in these negotiations is understandable. For a long time the organisation campaigned against sound recordings, as it felt records provided a cheap and inferior alternative to its members live performance work. This stance was later embodied in the Union's slogan, ‘keep music live’. (Ironically, the 'keep music live' campaign, which was initiated in 1964, was funded by recordings: the MU didn't allocate the money it received from PPL to the artists who appeared on records, but instead used it collectively. The 'Phonographic Funds' were distributed in various ways: some money went to members who had fallen upon hard times, other funds were used to finance various large-scale orchestras, some was spent on a series of May Day dances, and a 'large proportion' was used for the Union's promotional campaign.) 

Why should PPL concede to the MU's demands? Sarah Thornton has listed several possible reasons. First among them is the fact that the Union helped PPL to maintain control of its repertoire, as they forbade their members from recording with non-PPL companies. Secondly, MU members monitored record performances and copyright infringement at a local level, something that the understaffed collection society was unable to do. In addition, John Williamson has suggested that 'fear on the part of the record companies of a recording strike and a challenge to PPL's collection arrangements meant that they were willing participants in post-war discussions with the MU'. It should nevertheless be noted that the MU was only receiving 12.5% of PPL's money - there was a further 20% that was allocated to artists, and this money was distributed directly to the owners of the sound recording copyrights. Moreover, PPL continued to pay artists a share of their income, despite the fact that records came to be seen as less of a direct rival to live performance. They also continued to do so despite the declining power and membership of the MU. It might be that another aspect of PPL's farsightedness was envisioning that the artists’ share would eventually be enshrined in law.

It took a long time to reach this point. Section 5 of the 1956 Copyright Act clarified that a performance right existed in sound recordings, but failed to mention any artist rights. The UK signed up to the 1961 Rome Convention, article 12 of which states that an 'equitable remuneration' is due when recordings are broadcast or communicated to the public. There is a lack of clarity in this article, however. It states that this remuneration should be paid to 'the performers, or to the producers of the phonograms, or to both', and that it can be divided by 'agreement between these parties' or by domestic law. It was not until the European Union ‘Rental Directive’ of 1992 that the matter was settled. Article 8(2) ruled that ‘Member States shall provide a right in order to ensure that a single equitable remuneration is paid by the user, if a phonogram published for commercial purposes, or a reproduction of such phonogram, is used for broadcasting by wireless means or for any communication to the public, and to ensure that this remuneration is shared between the relevant performers and phonogram producers’.

The UK’s Copyright, Designs and Patents Act was amended in respect of the Rental Directive. In 1996 a section titled ‘Right to equitable remuneration for exploitation of sound recording’ was added. Clause 182D(1) states that: ‘Where a commercially published sound recording of the whole or any substantial part of a qualifying performance - (a) is played in public, or (b) is communicated to the public […] the performer is entitled to equitable remuneration from the owner of the copyright in the sound recording’. PPL’s literature explains what they did next:

When considering this new legislation, and after lengthy deliberations, the PPL Board agreed that the performers should benefit by receiving 50% of all ‘qualifying’ income on a track by track basis. This was a voluntary decision as legislators declined to recommend any particular split of PPL income. This meant that every single performer, whether featured or non featured would have to register their details with PPL or one of the newly formed UK performer organisations to enable their royalties to be forwarded to them.

The featured performers are those who have an exclusive contract with the record company issuing the record. Non-featured performers are commonly session musicians and backing singers. PPL has fairly complicated methods for dividing this income between the two types of performer. In general, however, the income is split 65:35 between featured and non-featured artists. This revenue has become increasingly important. In 2012 IFPI noted that ‘Performance rights income now accounts for 6 per cent of record companies’ trade revenues worldwide’. It would be higher still if it weren’t for the fact that copyright legislation has forced record companies in some countries to share this income equitably with their artists.

Finally, I would like to return to clause 19(1) of the 1911 Copyright Act and its idea that the copyright in records should operate ‘in like manner’ to the copyright in musical works. The Rental Directive has brought a form of parity between writers and artists. When it comes to the performing right, the songwriter members of PRS commonly receive 50% of this income directly, while 50% is paid to their publishers. The songwriters’ share is safeguarded in this manner because members assign their performing right in their compositions to the collection society. Their income from this right does not have to be paid off against publisher advances. In a similar manner, recording artists now receive 50% of the performing right income directly and this too does not have to paid off against their record companies’ advances. There remains a fundamental difference, however. Artists may well receive a 50% share of the performing right in sound recordings, but this share has been established without any fundamental change being made to the authorship or ownership of sound recording copyrights. In the majority of cases these still belong to record companies. But, surely some light has been let in here? The performing right underlines a conceptual problem that exists when considering record companies to be the authors of sound recordings. If artists are now considered as equal partners in the performing right, why not make them equal partners in the underlying sound recording copyright as well? 

Copyright Constraints and Royalty Affordances

I’ve recently had some correspondence with Justin Morey from Leeds Metropolitan University, whose research interests are copyright and digital sampling. Morey's work has a different bent to many copyright theorists, who can tend to be alarmist in the face of copyright extension. Siva Vaidhyanathan, for example, thinks that copyright law now only benefits big business. It is stifling the opportunities for creators and consumers. He claims that copyright law has ‘lost its mission . . . to encourage creativity, science, and democracy’, and suggests that ‘it rewards works already created and limits works yet to be created’. What Vaidhyanathan yearns for is a return to a time when copyright legislation was ‘thin’ and ‘leaky’. For her a ‘leaky copyright system’ encourages creativity and ‘allows users to enjoy the benefits of cultural proliferation at relatively low cost’.

            Morey doesn’t argue against writers like Vaidhyanathan, but he doesn’t think there is a copyright dystopia either. Instead, he provides glimpses that, when it comes to music, the copyright system does remain ‘leaky’, just as Vaidhyanathan desires. What’s most interesting is the means by which he arrives at this point: he talks to music creators. He is particularly focused on dance musicians who use samples. The results of his interviews with them are illuminating. Despite the fact that the laws relating to sample use have been tightened up and the cost of clearing samples has become more expensive, ‘None of the producers interviewed … advocated an end to the clearance process for substantial samples’.

            His interviewees, in fact, find opportunities within the copyright system, both when they are using copyrighted material and when they are creating it. Key to Morey’s view about the creative process is the idea of affordances and constraints. He states that ‘part of the enjoyment of the creative process … is in having to work with the inherent restrictions’. For his interviewed artists, some of these restrictions are technological, such as working with samples in which frequencies cannot be removed or working with machines whose editing capacities are not great. They are also financial and legal. Morey argues that:

Increasing costs of sample clearance and the financial demands of publishers to reach agreement for publishing clearance have introduced constraints to the amount of samples these producers are able to use and still derive economic benefit from their work. However, this in turn has become an affordance, as it has led some of them either to apply the techniques of sampling to their own recordings, or to take less significant or recognizable sections when they do sample in order to minimise the costs.

One of the artists states that:

it’s those restrictions which I think really test and encourage your creativity… So yeah, you tend to take less obvious bits of records and obviously you hunt for more obscure records, or you chop something within an inch of its life so even you’ve forgotten what you sampled…The new cautious approach in itself becomes a limitation, but not necessarily a bad one. I probably choose less musical elements to sample [now] and probably add more of my own musical input on top of it.

And if these artists are finding new ways of avoiding copyright payments, they are also finding new ways of getting paid. In an article that he has co-written with Phillip McIntyre, Morey outlines the judicial view of songwriting authorship: 'it can be argued that legal interpretation of song ownership in the case of disputes has tended towards the conclusion that the song equals the vocal melody, underlying chords and lyrics, i.e. Those elements that would have appeared in music publishing's initial main source of income, printed sheet music'. Morey and McIntyre then quote a number of academics, who suggest that songwriting credits should be expanded to include a wider ranger of contributors. Albin Zac, for example, argues that a pop recording contains:

three distinct compositional layers; the song, the musical arrangement, and the track. The song is what can be represented on a lead sheet; it usually includes words, melody, chord changes, and some degree of formal design. The arrangement is a particular musical setting of the song. It provides a more detailed prescriptive plan: instrumentation, musical parts, rhythmic groove, and so forth. The track is the recording itself. As the layer that represents the finished musical work, it subsumes the other two. That is, when we hear a record, we experience both song and arrangement through the sounds of the track.

Jon Fitzgerald, meanwhile, points out that: 'various authors have stressed the importance of considering the sound recording as musical text ... Hennion goes so far as to say that "the song is nothing before the arrangement" - arguing that creation "occurs at the moment of orchestration, recording, and sound mixing"'. For Morey and McIntyre it is sampling that reveals just how complex the authorship of a sound recording can be, and it is sampling injustices that illustrate how things could be changed. Credits shouldn’t be restricted to the writers who came up with most of the song, as it is often a particular segment – the solo, the break - that sampling composers are keen to access. And credits shouldn’t be restricted to the writers who originated the song, as it is often the musical arrangement or texture of a recording that sampling composers desire. Moreover, it is not always the lyrical, melodic, or harmonic elements that they are after: many sampling composers, particularly those working within dance music, are interested in grooves.

            Morey and McIntyre don’t despair, however. They find affordances in the registering of compositions. Songwriting copyright doesn’t have to be assigned to lyricists and melodic composers only. Rock groups can opt to give songwriting shares to drummers and bassists, and dance acts can give them to programmers and producers. In fact, the advice that PRS give to songwriters is that ‘the decision is entirely theirs’ when it comes to working out the splits. Consequently, Morey and McIntyre find a range of approaches among the artists they interview. Some groups divide up their songwriting shares equally, while others have a primary songwriter. They find dance acts dividing credits between the producer of the rhythm and the writer of the topline melody; elsewhere they find engineers, programmers and editors receiving shares.

            In summary, they state that ‘the way creativity is remunerated … is one that recognises a multiplicity of realistic situations and necessarily down-to-earth considerations in determining “the split” of … collaborative creative output’.

            I'm not keen to see copyright extended in any direction. At the same time, however, I find Morey and McIntyre's work useful. It reminds us that no matter how expansive the legal system gets, music creators will always find affordances in which to make their work. In fact, one of ways to create interesting work is to operate at the limits of that system.

Jarndyce v Jarndyce

I’ve thought that a good (and hilarious?) high-art musical joke would be to do a hip-hop track called ‘Jarndyce and Jarndyce’. It would take its name from the hereditary legal case that runs through Dickens’s Bleak House. Jarndyce v Jarndyce drags on for several generations, gradually consuming a large inheritance with legal costs. The same would be true for the hip-hop track. It would obviously be a huge hit, generating tens of thousands of pounds in royalties. None of these would ever be paid out, though. The track would be crammed full of samples, deliberately targeting some of the most litigious music catalogues. There would be some early Rolling Stones, a bit of the Stranglers, several samples from Marvin Gaye, and some of George Clinton’s work thrown in for good measure. The lyrics, too, would be stolen from a variety of sources, including hip-hop artists who have suffered their own legal misfortunes. The chorus would feature a number of interwoven melody lines, each taken from the most obvious of hits. None of this borrowing would be credited or cleared. ‘Jarndyce and Jarndyce’ would instead welcome claims of copyright infringement. More than this, it would want to set the various copyright owners in conflict with each other. The aim, ultimately, would be to create a track whose shares are so complicated they are never resolved. And while this conflict is in motion the song's royalties are consumed. 

Words and Music: That's the Joint

In the last blog entry I wrote about the declining status of status of lyricists and the declining share of songwriting income they might happen to receive. Here, I’m going to look at another reason for the death of the 'author', one that might be occasioned by the nuances of copyright law, or it might be occasioned by the fact that musicians aren’t very good at filling in forms.

British copyright law has viewed music and lyrics in two ways. It increasingly took a Bono-ite line, regarding music and lyrics as being one, but not the same. In its origins, however, the law was Spice Girls-eque. It viewed the lyrical and musical elements of a song as being two that become one. Within the past 12 months, that Spice Girls point of view has come back into focus. Music and lyrics can now dream of being together (almost) forever. 

The first British legislation to fundamentally address recorded music was the Copyright Act of 1911. It advises that ‘a musical work shall be deemed to include any words so closely associated therewith as to form part of the same work’. The 1988 Copyright, Designs and Patents Act reversed this policy. Here, ‘“musical work” was described as being a work consisting of music, exclusive of any words or action intended to be sung, spoken or performed with the music’. Under this legislation, lyrics had to lead a separate life. They were deemed to be ‘literary works’ rather than ‘musical works’. This had an effect when songwriters filed their songs with PRS for Music and declared whether they were authors (the writers of the lyrics) or composers (the writers of the music). In the UK if you were identified solely as a lyricist you could not be awarded joint authorship of a song with the musical composer(s). This is because joint authorship was defined on the basis that ‘the contribution of each author is not distinct from that of the other author or authors’. Literary and musical works were deemed to be distinct. PRS for Music regarded the two practices in this way. In the advice that they handed out about copyright law, they stated that ‘where two or more persons do collaborate but it is possible to determine the separate parts attributable to each author it will not be a work of joint authorship’.

It has nevertheless been the case that most PRS members have failed to classify themselves as either a composer or author. They have instead presented themselves as a hybrid kind: the composer-author. There are a number of reasons why the members have chosen this designation. One is because there are few songwriters who only write lyrics. It is often the case that the lyricist is the singer. In the process of working on their songs with musicians, many singers are involved in composing the top-line melody along with the words. Conversely, the musicians will sometimes chip in with lyrical ideas. A second reason is because some songwriters and/or their publishers fail to understand the distinction between composer and author and thus claim to be both. Alternatively some songwriters and publishers fail to complete this section of the PRS works form, in which case they will be listed as composer-authors by default. A final reason why songwriters and their publishers have chosen the composer-author designation is because joint authorship has real effects. It means that the ownership of the work cannot be divided in any way. Therefore, if an act does an instrumental cover version of a song that has lyrics, the lyricist will still get paid. Similarly, if there is a foreign language version of a song, the original lyricist maintains a share. Copyright lasts until 70 years after the death of the last ‘joint’ author. Consequently, it has been financially advisable for all contributors to a song identify themselves as composer-authors, at least if they’re thinking with their dependents in mind.

American songwriters receive similar benefits, but in their own country there has been a different legal framework. US copyright law has not deemed lyrics and music to be distinct. The 1976 Copyright Act groups them together under the category of ‘works of the performing arts’. Joint authorship has also been classified in a different manner. In America a ‘joint work’ is a 'work prepared by two or more authors with the intention that their contributions be merged into inseparable or interdependent parts of a unitary whole'. The vast majority of songs are automatically classified as joint works. It is believed that it is the plan of most lyricists and composers to weld their contributions together in a unified work of art. This law even applies when lyricists and composers are divorced by time and space. If they intend their work to come together as part of a whole, it doesn’t matter where they were when they composed their own part. It is only when there is a lack of consent in the merger that lyrics and music are treated as separate within American copyright law.

There are countries within the European Union who have a similar outlook. They see that, conceptually, a song with words is created as a joint enterprise. This is also the view taken by the EU's legislators. In the same 2011 directive that extended the duration of sound recording copyright from 50 to 70 years, it was deemed that the majority of songs are the result of joint musical and lyrical enterprises. The document states that Article 1 of EU Directive 2006/116/EC should be amended to read: 'The term of protection of a musical composition with words shall expire 70 years after the death of the last of the following persons to survive, whether or not those persons are designated as co-authors: the author of the lyrics and the composer of the musical composition, provided that both contributions were specifically created for the respective musical composition with words'. The UK implemented this directive on 1 November 2013.

Despite these changes and the differences between British, European and American law, the registration of songs looks much the same: most modern songs are classified as being written by composer-authors. As such, we know that there is a lyrical input in there somewhere, but the precise origin of this input is hard to locate. Everybody, it seems, is a lyricist now. They are all composers too. 

Words and Music: Doing the Splits

In his book Performing Rites, Simon Frith tells the story of a correspondence between the novelist/lyricist Margaret Radclyffe-Hall and the publishers Chappell and Company, which took place in 1918. Radcylffe-Hall had written the words to the hit song ‘The Blind Ploughman’. She had not received any royalties, however, and wrote to the publishers seeking redress. William Davey, the chairman of Chappell, excused his company’s parsimony on the grounds that:

Unfortunately, we cannot afford to pay royalties to lyric writers. One or two other publishers may, but if we were to introduce the principle, there would be no end to it. Many lyrics are merely the same words in a different order and almost always with the same ideas. Hardly any of them, to be frank, are worth a royalty.

He concedes that he has ‘admiration’ for the words to ‘The Blind Ploughman’ and offers her a one off payment of 20 guineas for her troubles. Frith states that Davey’s ‘letter is interesting in a number of ways, not least for its revelation that Chappell was, apparently, routinely breaking the law – the Copyright Act of 1911 included lyricists in musical composition regulations even though music publishers had campaigned against this’. Frith is alluding to clause 19.2.b.ii of the Act, which states, ‘a musical work shall be deemed to include any words so closely associated therewith as to form part of the same work’. Here, British law was following the Berne Convention of 1886, which sought copyright protection for ‘musical compositions with or without words’.

            Frith is right. It is interesting that Chappell were refusing to pay Radclyffe-Hall. What’s less clear is whether the publishers were breaking the law. If the issue was to do with sheet music, then presumably so: Chappell would have been printing copyrighted words without permission. If the issue was to do with royalties for public performance or for the sale of records (the mechanical right), then things are more complicated. It is mechanical royalties that clause 19.2.b.ii is referring to. Despite the 1911 Copyright Act's recognition of the integral importance of lyrics, however, it set no value on what they were worth. In fact, as far as I am aware, British copyright law has never determined what portion of a song’s performance or mechanical royalties should go to the lyricists and what portion should go to the musical composers. The responsibility for determining these splits was first taken on by music copyright societies. France took the lead here. It established the world's first collection society in 1851. It is of consequence that this society was formed jointly by a lyricist, a composer and a publisher, a partnership that is reflected in its title: Société des auters, compositeurs et éditeurs de musique (SACEM). It was determined that these three parties would share copyright money in equal proportions. When the UK eventually set up its own Performing Right Society (PRS) in 1914, the same split was adopted. Other countries have used different methods, however. The German society, GEMA, originally determined that publishers could have no more than a 25% share. Moreover, while France has retained is three-way split, other countries have moved towards a model where the publisher has a 50% share and the songwriters split the remaining 50% between them (albeit that in private the publisher might also give the songwriters a portion of their share).  

For much of the 20th century, whatever the size of the remaining portion, its most common allocation was to be divided equally between a lyricist and a composer. It was in the inter-war period that much of the ‘Great American Songbook’ was composed. Many of these classic 1920s and 1930s songs were written by partnerships: Harold Arlen and E.Y. Harburg; George and Ira Gershwin; Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart; etc. and etc. In each case the former wrote the music and the latter wrote the lyrics, and in each case the composers and lyricists were allocated an equal split of the royalties. The Brill Building songwriting teams of the 1950s and 1960s also operated according to this split, as did the songwriting partnerships in British beat groups. It has been prevalent in musical theatre and has been used by classicist indie songwriters. The idea of a divided split between lyricist and composer is also maintained in much copyright advice.

It has, however, been challenged in a number of ways. One of the problems that traditional splits have presented for self-contained groups is that they are equitable for some members, but not for others. The songwriters will end up richer than the other performers in the band. In many cases the high earners will be the guitarist (who is receiving royalties for writing the music) and the singer (who gains royalties for the words). This disparity has caused bands to split. Alternatively, they might amend their ways. Queen used to allocate songwriting royalties to the principal songwriter of each song, but by the end of their existence were splitting shares for all songs four ways. The Clash were another group who progressed towards presenting their songs as group compositions. Other groups, among them some of the longest-lived, have decided from their inception to allocate shares equally to all members. U2, REM, Coldplay and Elbow all operate in this manner. Others devise more complicated methods. Each member generally receives a royalty share for every track, but these are not allocated equally. The most ‘important’ members (still commonly the singer and the guitarist) will receive a larger allocation. These practices aren't limited to ‘authentic’ guitar bands, either. Some pop acts, such as the Spice Girls and the Sugababes, split their shares between writer/producers and the singers in the group, and the same is true for many solo artists who work with songwriter/producers. In the pop world, too, there is a wide variance in shares. Sometimes they will be split equally, other times more complicated divisions are devised.

Songwriting spits have also been complicated by the practices of sampling and interpolating. Hip-hop tracks, in particular, are a mess of credits. Many, in fact, remain perpetually unresolved. Hip-hop and dance music have also turned traditional musical hierarchies on their head. Where it used to be the case that a song’s melody and words were deemed to be of most value, these genres have seen more credit accorded to the beat. This could be considered an ironic outcome for hip-hop, the most word-based of all popular music forms. It was this genre, however, that shone a light on how unfairly some copyright allocations had been devised. The raps of hip-hop have traditionally rested upon sampled drum breaks. The drummers who devised these breaks have failed to see any royalties for their work. Clyde Subblefield played the famous 'funky drummer' solo, but it's composition credits go to the composer of the song's 'melody', James Brown. Gregory Coleman devised the 'Amen Break', often considered to be the most sampled drum solo of all, and yet the royalties go to Jester Hairston, writer of 'Amen', the song that Coleman's band, the Winstons, were covering. Fewer drum breaks are sampled today. Rhythm tracks are instead created by producers, who will then send these beats to other songwriters so that they can be completed with melodies, harmonies and words. As if mindful of the past injustices meted out to drummers, these producers will demand half of the songwriting royalties. Correspondingly, there are now songwriters who specialize in writing only one part of the song, whether that be the hook or an eight-bar of rhymes.

 There’s something good about these changes. The complexity of pop composition is being recognised and more of the interested parties are receiving some shares. It is also good that popular music copyright is no longer in thrall to classical conventions, with their emphases on melody and harmony over rhythm and timbre. Nevertheless, if the old melodist/lyricist split represented an unfair reflection of the contributors to a work, the new methods fail to bring us any closer to knowing exactly who did what, or towards an understanding of what any of it is really worth.

They also have another consequence. In many cases it is rhythm that is on the rise. When it comes to rock music, the bass players and drummers in bands now appear on more songwriting credits. When it comes to dance music, the producers of rhythm tracks are often the ones who are determining the splits. It is generally assumed that this is happening at the expense of the other musicians, and it is true that many guitarists and keyboard players now receive a lower share of the royalties. There is, however, another activity that is getting squeezed. On the surface, lyrics are still worth 50% of the songwriting shares. If you look at the credits for any song, at least half of the writers' income is going to somebody who is credited as an 'author'. When it comes to popular music, however, few of these writers are only responsible for the words. Most are instead listed as 'composer-authors', meaning that they have an input into both the music and the lyrics. The complicating factor here is that it is not just the main lyric writers who are adopting this credit, in many cases it is being applied to all of the members of a band. It is also being applied to all the members of songwriting teams. And it is being applied no matter how great or small the contribution to the lyric writing is. In fact, there's really no way of checking whether these numerous composer-authors actually contributed to the lyric-writing process. As a consequence, the author who was responsible for writing the majority of the lyrics might well end up with less than 50% of the songwriting share. The composer-author title is reflective of modern songwriting practice. At the same time, it allows songwriters to circumvent the strict 50/50 lyricist/composer split that some of the collection societies require. It has also had another consequence: the composer-author credit has helped to provide longer-lasting copyright protection. But that’s another story for another day . . .

Vinyl Reviewed by Stephen Wagg in Leisure/Loisir

A great review of Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record has appeared in the Canadian journal Leisure/Loisir. Stephen Wagg of Leeds Metropolitan University describes the book as an ‘absolute must’ for anyone with a specialist interest in the subject. He states that it is ‘a work of impressive scholarship’, adding that ‘It’s painstaking in its attention to detail’ and that it ‘strikes a perfect balance’ between this detail and the ‘broader sweep of history’. While welcoming Stephen Wagg’s praise, I also agree with his moments of reservation. He states that the book has ‘the very occasional excess’, and he’s right that I should have toned down some of the claims for vinyl. He also points out that the first chapter is different in tone to the rest of the book. I agree with him here as well. This chapter was written first and it is more pretentious than the others. Despite several revisions, some of this pretention would not be washed away. The full review can be accessed here.