The Public Domain Part 16

As with all music, those musical traditions can be traced back or forward in time, the net of influence and borrowing widening as one goes in either direction. In each, one can point to distinctive musical motifs--the chords of the twelve-bar blues, or the flattened fifth in bebop. But musical traditions are also defined by performance styles and characteristic sounds: the warm guitar that came out of the valve amplifiers of early funk, the thras.h.i.+ng (and poorly miked) drums of '80s punk, or the tinny piano of honky-tonk. Finally, styles are often built around "standards"--cla.s.sic songs of the genre to which an almost obligatory reference is made. My colleague, the talented composer Anthony Kelley, uses Henry Louis Gates's term "signifyin' " to describe the process of showing you are embedded in your musical tradition by referring back to its cla.s.sics in your playing. In jazz, for example, one demonstrates one's rootedness in the tradition by quoting a standard, but also one's virtuosity in being able to trim it into a particular eight-bar solo, beginning and ending on the right note for the current moment in the chord progression. "I Got Rhythm" and "Round Midnight" are such songs for jazz. (The chord changes of "I Got Rhythm" are so standard, they are referred to as "the rhythm changes"--a standard basis for improvisation.) And to stretch the connections further, as Kelley points out, the haunting introduction to "Round Midnight" is itself remarkably similar to Sibelius's Fifth Symphony.

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Through all these layers of musical borrowing and reference, at least in the twentieth century in the United States, runs the seam of race. When white musicians "borrowed" from soul to make "blue-eyed soul," when Elvis took songs and styles from rhythm and blues and turned them into rockabilly, a process of racial cleansing went on. Styles were adapted but were cleansed of those elements thought inappropriate for a larger white audience. Generally, this involved cutting some of the rawer sensuality, removing racially specific verbal and musical references, and, for much of the century, cutting the African- American artists out of the profits in the process.

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There is another irony here. Styles formed by patterns of gleeful borrowing, formed as part of a musical commons--the blues of the Mississippi Delta, for example--were eventually commercialized and "frozen" into a particular form by white artists. Sometimes those styles were covered with intellectual property rights which denied the ability of the original community to "borrow back." In the last thirty or forty years of the century, African-American artists got into the picture too, understandably embracing with considerable zeal the commercial opportunities and property rights that had previously been denied to them. But aside from the issue of racial injustice, one has to consider the question of sustainability.

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In other work, I have tried to show how a vision of intellectual property rights built around a notion of the romantic author can sometimes operate as a one-way valve vis-a-vis traditional and collective creative work.9 There is a danger that copyright will treat collectively created musical traditions as unowned raw material, but will then prevent the commercialized versions of those traditions--now a.s.sociated with an individual artist--from continuing to act as the basis for the next cycle of musical adaptation and development. One wonders whether jazz, blues, R&B, gospel, and soul would even have been possible as musical styles if, from their inception, they had been covered by the strong property rights we apply today. That is a question I want to return to at the end of this chapter.

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Musical styles change over time and so do their techniques of appropriation. Sometimes musical generations find their successors are engaging in different types of borrowing than they themselves engaged in. They do not always find it congenial. It is striking how often musicians condemn a younger generation's practice of musical appropriation as theft, while viewing their own musical development and indebtedness as benign and organic. James Brown attacked the use of his guitar licks or the drum patterns from his songs by hip-hop samplers, for example, but celebrated the process of borrowing from gospel standards and from rhythm and blues that created the "Hardest Working Man in Show Business"--both the song and the musical persona. To be sure, there are differences between the two practices. Samplers take a three-second segment off the actual recording of "Funky Drummer," manipulate it, and turn it into a repeating rhythm loop for a hip-hop song. This is a different kind of borrowing than the adaptation of a chord pattern from a gospel standard to make an R&B hit. But which way does the difference cut as a matter of ethics, aesthetics, or law?

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Charles himself came in for considerable criticism for his fusion of gospel intonations and melodic structures with the nightclub sound of rhythm and blues, but not because it was viewed as piracy. It was viewed as sacrilegious.

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Charles totally removed himself from the polite music he had made in the past. There was an unrestrained exuberance to the new Ray Charles, a fierce earthiness that, while it would not have been unfamiliar to any follower of gospel music, was almost revolutionary in the world of pop. Big Bill Broonzy was outraged: "He's crying, sanctified. He's mixing the blues with the spirituals. He should be singing in a church."10 37

Charles disagreed. "You can't run away from yourself. . . . What you are inside is what you are inside. I was raised in the church and was around blues and would hear all these musicians on the jukeboxes and then I would go to revival meetings on Sunday morning. So I would get both sides of music. A lot of people at the time thought it was sacrilegious but all I was doing was singing the way I felt."11 Why the charge of sacrilege? Because beyond the breach of stylistic barriers, the relations.h.i.+ps Charles described did not seem to belong in church.

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"I Got a Woman" tells of a woman, "way over town," who is good to the singer--very good, in fact. She gives him money when he is in need, is a "kind of friend indeed," even saves her "early morning loving" just for him (and it is tender loving at that).

In the third verse we learn she does not grumble, fuss, or run in the streets, "knows a woman's place is right there now in the home," and in general is a paragon of femininity. Gender roles aside, it is a fabulous song, from the elongated "We-e-ell . .

." in Charles's distinctive tones, to the momentary hesitation that heightens the tension, all the way through the driving beat of the main verses and the sense that a gospel choir would have fit right in on the choruses, testifying ecstatically to the virtues of Charles's lady friend. Charles liked women--a lot of women, according to his biographers--and a lot of women liked him right back. That feeling comes through very clearly from this song.

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I would like to quote the song lyrics for you, just as I did the words of the hymn, but that requires a little more thought.

Charles's song was released in 1955. By that time, the copyright term for a musical composition was twenty-eight years, renewable for another twenty-eight if the author wished. (Later, the twenty-eight-year second term would be increased to forty-seven years. Still later, the copyright term would be extended to life plus seventy years, or ninety-five years for a "work for hire."

Sound recordings themselves would not be protected by federal law until the early 1970s.) Anyone who wrote or distributed a song under the "28 ??28" system was, in effect, saying "this is a long enough protection for me," enough incentive to create.

Thus, we could have a.s.sumed that "I Got a Woman" would enter the public domain in either 1983 or, if renewed, 2011. Unfortunately for us, and for a latter-day Ray Charles, the copyright term has been extended several times since then, and each time it was also extended retrospectively. Artists, musicians, novelists, and filmmakers who had created their works on the understanding that they had twenty-eight or fifty-six or seventy-five years of protection now have considerably more. This was the point raised in Chapter 1. Most of the culture of the twentieth century, produced under a perfectly well-functioning system with much shorter copyright terms, is still locked up and will be for many years to come.

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In the case of "I Got a Woman," it is now about fifty years since the song's release--the same length of time as between Thompson's hymn and Charles's alleged "rewording." If the words and music were properly copyrighted at the time of its publication, and renewed when appropriate, the copyright still has forty-five years to run. No one will be able to "reword" "I Got a Woman" and use it to found a new genre, or take substantial portions of its melody, until the year 2050. The freedoms Ray Charles says he used to create his song are denied to his successors until nearly a century after the song's release. (As we will see in a moment, this put certain constraints on Kanye West.) 41

Would it truly be a violation of copyright for me to quote the middle stanza in a nonfiction book on copyright policy? Not at all. It is a cla.s.sic "fair use." In a moment I will do so. But it is something that the publisher may well fuss over, because copyright holders are extremely aggressive in asking for payments for the slightest little segment. Copyright holders in music and song lyrics are among the most aggressive of the lot.

Year after year academics, critics, and historians pay fairly substantial fees (by our standards) to license tiny fragments of songs even though their incorporation is almost certainly fair use. Many of them do not know the law. Others do, but want to avoid the ha.s.sle, the threats, the nasty letters. It is simpler just to pay.

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Unfortunately, these individual actions have a collective impact. One of the factors used to consider whether something is a fair use is whether or not there is a market for this particular use of a work. If there is, it is less likely to be a fair use to quote or incorporate such a fragment. As several courts have pointed out, there is a powerful element of circularity here. You claim you have a right to stop me from doing x--quoting two lines of your three-verse song in an academic book, say. I say you have no such right and it is a fair use. You say it is not a fair use because it interferes with your market--the market for selling licenses for two- sentence fragments. But when do you have such a market? When you have a right to stop me quoting the two-sentence fragment unless I pay you. Do you have such a right? But that is exactly what we are trying to decide! Is it a fair use or not? The existence of the market depends on it not being a fair use for me to quote it without permission. To say "I would have a market if I could stop you doing it, so it cannot be a fair use, so I can stop you" is perfectly circular.

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How do we get out of the circle? Often the court will look to customs and patterns in the world outside. Do people accept this as a market? Do they traditionally pay such fees? Thus, if a lot of people choose to pay for quotes that actually should have been fair use, the "market" for short quotes will begin to emerge. That will, in turn, affect the boundaries of fair use for the worse. Slowly, fair use will constrict, will atrophy.

The hypertrophied permissions culture starts as myth, but it can become reality.

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In any event, Ray Charles had no need of fair use to make "I Got a Woman" because the hymn his biography claims it is based on was in the public domain. But is that the real source? I can hear little resemblance. As I researched the origins of "I Got a Woman," I found claims that there was a different source, a mysterious song by the Bailey Gospel Singers, or the Harold Bailey Gospel Singers, called "I've Got a Savior."12 The Columbia Records gospel catalogue even provided a catalogue number.13 There was such a song, or so it seemed. But there the research stalled. The exemplary librarians at Duke University Music Library could find no trace. Catalogues of published records showed nothing. Inquiries to various music librarian listservs also produced no answer. There was a man called Harold Bailey, who sang with a group of gospel singers, but though several Internet postings suggested he was connected to the song, his biography revealed he would have been only thirteen at the time. The Library of Congress did not have it. Eventually, Jordi Weinstock--a great research a.s.sistant who demonstrated willingness to pester anyone in the world who might conceivably have access to the recording--hit gold. The Rodgers and Hammerstein Archives of Recorded Sound at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts had a copy--a 78 rpm vinyl record by the Bailey Gospel Singers with "Jesus Is the Searchlight" on the B-side. Our library was able to obtain a copy on interlibrary loan from the helpful curator, Don McCormick.

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It sounds like the same song. Not the same words, of course: the introduction is different and the Bailey Gospel Singers lack the boom-chicky-boom backing of Charles's version, but the central melody is almost exactly the same. When the Bailey Gospel Singers sing "Keeps me up / Keeps me strong / Teach me right / When I doing wrong / Well, I've got a savior / Oh what a savior / yes I have," the melody, and even the intonation, parallel Charles singing the equivalent lines: "She gimme money / when I'm in need / Yeah she's a kind of / friend indeed / I've got a woman / way over town / who's good to me."

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True, some of the lyrical and rhythmic patterns of "I've Got a Savior" are older still. They come from a spiritual called "Ain't That Good News," dating from 1940, which rehea.r.s.es all the things the singer will have in the Kingdom of Heaven--a harp, a robe, slippers (!), and, finally, a savior. The author of "I've Got a Savior" was, like all the artists discussed here, taking a great deal from a prior musical tradition.

Nevertheless, Charles's borrowing is particularly overt and direct. The term "rewording" is appropriate. So far as I can see, whether or not he also relied on a fifty-year-old hymn, Ray Charles appears to have taken both the melody and lyrical pattern of his most famous. .h.i.t from a song that was made a mere three or four years earlier.

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Like many 78 rpm records, this one was sold without liner notes.

The center of the record provides the only details. It gives the name of the track and the band and a single word under the song t.i.tle, "Ward"--presumably the composer. "Ward" might be Clara Ward of the Ward Singers, a talented gospel singer and songwriter who became Aretha Franklin's mentor and who had her own music publis.h.i.+ng company.

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There is a particular reason to think that she might have written the song: Ray Charles clearly liked to adapt her music to secular ends. We know that he "reworked" Ward's gospel cla.s.sic "This Little Light of Mine" into "This Little Girl of Mine." Ward reportedly was irritated by the practice. So far as we know, the copying of the music did not annoy her because she viewed it as theft, but because she viewed it as an offense against gospel music.

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Charles is now starting to get criticism from some gospel music performers for secularizing gospel music and presenting it in usual R&B venues. Most adamant in her misgivings is Clara Ward who complains about "This Little Girl Of Mine" being a reworking of "This Little Light Of Mine" (which it is), as a slap against the gospel field.14 50

This stage of Charles's career is described, rightly, as the moment when his originality bursts forth, where he stops imitating the smooth sounds of Nat King Cole and instead produces the earthy and sensual style that becomes his trademark--his own sound. That is true enough; there had been nothing quite like this before. Yet it was hardly original creation out of nothing. Both Charles himself and the musicological literature point out that "his own sound," "his style," is in reality a fusion of two prior genres--rhythm and blues and gospel. But looking at the actual songs that created soul as a genre shows us that the fusion goes far beyond merely a stylistic one. Charles makes some of his most famous songs by taking existing gospel cla.s.sics and reworking or simply rewording them. "I've Got a Savior" becomes "I Got a Woman."

"This Little Light of Mine" becomes "This Little Girl of Mine."

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The connection is striking: two very recent gospel songs, probably by the same author, from which Charles copies the melody, structure, pattern of verses, even most of the t.i.tle--in each case subst.i.tuting a beloved sensual woman for the beloved deity. Many others have noticed just how closely Charles based his songs on gospel tunes, although the prevalence of the story that "I Got a Woman" is derived from an early-twentieth-century hymn caused most to see only the second transposition, not the first.15 Borrowing from a fifty-year-old hymn and changing it substantially in the process seems a little different from the repeated process of "search and replace" musical collage that Charles performed on the contemporary works of Clara Ward.

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If I am right, Charles's "merger" of gospel and blues relied on a very direct process of transposition. The transposition was not just of themes: pa.s.sion for woman subst.i.tuted for pa.s.sion for G.o.d. That is a familiar aspect of soul.16 It is what allows it to draw so easily from gospel's fieriness and yet coat the religion with a distinctly more worldly pa.s.sion. s.e.x, sin, and syncopation--what more could one ask? But Charles's genius was to take particular songs that had already proved themselves in the church and on the radio, and to grab large chunks of the melody and structure. He was not just copying themes, or merging genres, he was copying the melodies and words from recent songs.

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Was this mere musical plagiarism, then? Should we think less of Ray Charles's genius because we find just how closely two of the canonical songs in the creation of soul were based on the work of his contemporaries? Hardly. "I Got a Woman" and "This Little Girl of Mine" are simply brilliant. Charles does in fact span the worlds of the nightclub at 3 a.m. on Sunday morning and the church later that day, of ecstatic testimony and good old- fas.h.i.+oned s.e.xual infatuation. But the way he does so is a lot more like welding, or bricolage, than it is like designing out of nothing or creating anew while distantly tugged by mysterious musical forces called "themes" or "genres." Charles takes bits that have been proven to work and combines them to make something new. When I tell engineers or software engineers this story, they nod. Of course that is how creation works. One does not reinvent the wheel, or the method of debugging, so why should one reinvent the hook, the riff, or the melody? And yet Charles's creation does not have the degraded artistic quality that is a.s.sociated with "mere" cut-and-paste or collage techniques. The combination is greater than the sum of its parts. If Charles's songs do not fit our model of innovative artistic creativity, perhaps we need to revise the model--at least for music--rather than devaluing his work.

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When I began this study, it seemed to me that the greatest challenge to copyright law in dealing with music was preventing rights from "creeping," expanding from coverage of a single song or melody to cover essential elements of genre, style, and theme. In effect, we needed to apply the Jefferson Warning to music, to defeat the constant tendency to confuse intellectual property with real property, and to reject the attempts to make the right holder's control total. My a.s.sumption was that all we needed to do was to keep open the "common s.p.a.ce" of genre and style, and let new artists create their new compositions out of the material in that commons and gain protection over them. In many ways, Charles's work lies at the very core of the stuff copyright wishes to promote. It is not merely innovative and expressive itself, it also helped form a whole new genre in which other artists could express themselves. But to create this work, Charles needed to make use of a lot more than just genres and styles created by others. He needed their actual songs. If the reactions of Clara Ward and Big Bill Broonzy are anything to go by, they would not have given him permission. To them, soul was a stylistic violation, a mingling of the sacred with the profane. If given a copyright veto over his work, and a culture that accepts its use, Ward might well have exercised it. Like the disapproving heirs that Macaulay talked about, she could have denied us a vital part of the cultural record. Control has a price.

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Did Ray Charles commit copyright infringement? Perhaps. We would have to find if the songs are substantially similar, once we had excluded standard forms, public domain elements, and so on. I would say that they are substantially similar, but was the material used copyright-protected expression?

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The Copyright Office database shows no entry for "I've Got a Savior." This is not conclusive, but it seems to indicate that no copyright was ever registered in the work. In fact, it is quite possible that the song was first written without a copyright notice. Nowadays that omission would be irrelevant.

Works are copyrighted as soon as they are fixed in material form, regardless of whether any copyright notice is attached. In 1951, however, a notice was required when the work was published, and if one was not put on the work, it pa.s.sed immediately into the public domain. However, later legislation decreed that the relevant publication was not of the record, but of the notation. If the record were pressed and sold without a copyright notice, the error could be corrected. If a lead sheet or a sheet music version of "I've Got a Savior" had been published without notice or registration, it would enter the public domain. It is possible that this happened. Intellectual property rights simply played a lesser role in the 1950s music business than they do today, both for better and for worse.

Large areas of creativity operated as copyright-free zones. Even where copyrights were properly registered, permission fees were not demanded for tiny samples. While bootlegged recordings or direct note-for-note copies might well draw legal action, borrowing and transformation were apparently viewed as a normal part of the creative process. In some cases, artists simply did not use copyright. They made money from performances. Their records might receive some kind of protection from state law.

These protections sufficed.

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But the lack of protection also had a less attractive and more racially skewed side. African-American artists were less likely to have the resources and knowledge necessary to navigate the system of copyright. For both black and white artists, whatever rights there were moved quickly away from the actual creators toward the agents, record companies, and distributors. They still do. But African-American musicians got an even worse deal than their white counterparts. True, the copyright system was only an infinitesimal part of that process. A much larger part was the economic consequences of segregation and racial apartheid. But copyright was one of the many levers of power that were more easily pulled by white hands. This is an important point because the need to end that palpable racial injustice is sometimes used to justify every aspect of our current highly legalized musical culture. About that conclusion, I am less convinced.

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In any event, it is possible that the musical composition for "I've Got a Savior" went immediately into the public domain. If that were the case, Ray Charles could draw on it, could change it, could refine it without permission or fee. Certainly there is no mention of seeking permission or paying fees in any of the histories of "I Got a Woman." Indeed, the only question of rect.i.tude Charles was focused on was the stylistic one. Was it appropriate to mix gospel and R&B, devotional music and secular desire? Charles and Richard seemed to see the process of rewording and adapting as just a standard part of the musician's creative process. The only question was whether these two styles were aesthetically or morally suited, not whether the borrowing itself was illegal or unethical. So, whether they drew on a hymn that had fallen into the public domain after the expiration of its copyright term, or a gospel song for which copyright had never been sought, or whether they simply took a copyrighted song and did to it something that no one at the time thought was legally inappropriate, Renald Richard and Ray Charles were able to create "I Got a Woman" and play a significant role in founding a new musical genre--soul.

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One thing is clear. Much of what Charles and Richard did in creating their song would be illegal today. Copyright terms are longer. Copyright protection itself is automatic. Copyright policing is much more aggressive. The musical culture has changed into one in which every fragment must be licensed and paid for. The combination is fatal to the particular pattern of borrowing that created these seminal songs of soul.

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