It was safe. Secure. Free from theft. It was worth every minute and dime spent acquiring such peace of mind. Unless I gave my consent, the author's consent, it was undeniably untouchable.
It was in writing. Validated by certificate. The righs to the entire work were designated the property of one person. The copyright claimant. Me. Hours of writing and rewriting, recording and re-recording, remixing, and re-remixing were rewarded in a legal claim ensuring the rights of the songwriter against infringement. My work was protected by law. So what went wrong?
What entices a songwriter to use part of another songwriter's copyright registered material? Was the infringer unaware plagiarism is illegal? Technically, a crime is legal unless the perpetrator can be convicted. That, for him, was incentive. Confident his activities would remain unproven, he stole. He stole for profit and prestige and a pat on the shoulder from his publisher. Considering his infraction was directed toward a distant colleague of sorts, his unsympathetic actions lend themselves toward a crime against humanity. Perhaps, better stated, a crime against the humanities.
I heard it on the radio; part of my song in someone else's song. The chorus was different. The lyrics were different. But the verse melody was unmistakably mine. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for using that," I said to the radio. I had mistakenly thought the melody belonged to a songwriter other than myself. I knew it was part of somebody's work. I kept trying to place it, while the song played. As the last verse began, I realized whose melody it was. Mine. I was shocked. Indignant. Excited and elated. I had just heard a major label artist perform a song containing part of my copyright registered material. I was certain the artist would have to admit the blunder and settle with me; either in or out of court.
I called the radio station. After explaining my situation, the disc jockey agreed to play the song again later in the program. He told me, however, the song in question was an album cut played by mistake. I thought it must be fate. Anticipating the repeat performance, I cued my cassette recorder to capture the event on tape. He played it. I recorded it. I lost count of how many times I reviewed that tape while comparing it to my demo version of the song. I concluded, this was a case of blatant infringement. Plainly blatant. Rudely blatant. Plain rude.
I bought the cassette containing the professional release of the song and prepared a comparison tape of verse versus verse. Although I was satisfied the two melodies were the same, I sought the opinion of others |
to either strengthen my convictions or convince me I had been fooling myself. I was too close to it. Family listened. Friends and acquaintances listened. All agreed. A disc jockey, spinning tunes for a local bar, reviewed the comparison tape. The disc jockey agreed. Two DJs, working for two separate FM radio stations, listened. Both agreed. It was my verse melody. The consensus had spoken. I agreed.
Studying the insert from the cassette tape, I noticed the song was written by two songwriters. One was the artist. The other was a name unfamiliar to me. Also, the publishing was accredited to three publishing firms. This complicated the situation. Who was to blame? Only one name, besides the artist was known to me. One of the publishers. A firm I sent my songs to on more than one occasion. Now I was absolutely certain. It was a case of blatant infringement. And I was getting angry. Off to the lawyers!
I contacted a reputable sports and entertainment attorney residing in my home town. I suggested sending a presentation representing my situation. He consented. The presentation included a photocopy of my copyright registration certificate, a list of the credits appearing on the infringer's cassette insert and a cassette tape of the infringer's song as well as a cassette demo of my song. In addition, I enclosed a photocopy of a rejection notice I had received from one of the publishers involved.
Three weeks later, the attorney reached his decision. He declined to represent me in a law suit against the infringer. My case lacked one important ingredient. Proof of access. Solid proof the infringer had had access to my copyright registered material. The rejection notice, I had received from the publisher, was "generic." The date was absent and it lacked a list fo the songs reviewed. It was inadequate as evidence.
The attorney suggested I search my files in an attempt to find another form of proof of access. A copy of a letter, sent to the publisher, mentioning the title of the song. A letter, sent to me, from the publisher. A record showing when and to whom the song was sent. A record verifying when it was returned. My files were deficient. My usually impeccable records had slipped. I let them slip. Looming personal problems had left little time for "unnecessary" paperwork. But things tend to happen just then. When you become lax. Proof of access, lost.
(This excerpt comprises approximately 3 of the article's 10 pages.)
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