Author: David Newhoff

David is an author, communications professional, and copyright advocate. After more than 20 years providing creative services and consulting in corporate communications, he shifted his attention to law and policy, beginning with advocacy of copyright and the value of creative professionals to America’s economy, core principles, and culture.

What does Public Knowledge have against the CLASSICS of music?

On April 25, a pretty extraordinary thing happened. Especially in a time of staggering political dysfunction, it was pretty impressive to see the House of Representatives pass an omnibus bill overhauling copyright law for music in the digital market with a vote of 415-0. Now headed to the Senate, the bill, known generally as the Music Modernization Act (MMA), combines three major pieces of legislation that have been in development for several years—the MMA, the CLASSICS Act, and the AMP Act.

In very simple terms, the legislation achieves the following results: 1) better and more accurate payments by digital service providers (e.g. Spotify) to songwriters (MMA); 2) federal protection for certain digital public performances of pre-1972 sound recordings (CLASSICS); and 3) compensation for engineers, mixers, or producers where they contribute to co-authorship of sound recordings (AMP). The entire package represents unprecedented examples of compromise between the digital service providers (DSPs) and the music industry; and in simple terms again, what the DSPs get out of the deal is an easier licensing regime and a new blanket liability protection that will put an end to the types of class-action lawsuits that Spotify faced for streaming unlicensed songs.

As the entire bill moves to the Senate, certain critics like Public Knowledge are now targeting the CLASSICS Act as “bad law,” recommending the Senate “consider” it separately from the rest of the omnibus bill passed by the House. Of course, if PK thinks CLASSICS is “bad law,” then I assume we can read “consider” to mean “kill,” which is certainly the assumption made by David Lowery in this post on The Trichordist. “Now it appears that through the use of proxies and two-faced lobbying DiMA [Digital Media Association] is trying to abrogate the entire compromise by stripping out the Pre-1972 and producer/mixer protections,” Lowery writes.

For an organization that claims to be a public advocate, Public Knowledge demonstrates remarkable consistency in advocating copyright policy most favorable to the business interests of internet service providers; and their objection to the CLASSICS Act is just the latest example. I’ll address a few specifics in a subsequent post, but the bottom line for the average consumer is this: having the digital service companies pay license fees to stream pre-1972 recordings will not in any way negatively affect the quality of our music-streaming experiences. I mean you don’t walk into a coffee bar with its comfy couches, free WiFi, and friendly service and say, “Wait a minute! They sell fair-trade coffee in this place?? I’m outta here.”

What the CLASSICS Act Addresses

Sound recordings were added as a category of works protected by federal copyright law on February 15, 1972. But for reasons nobody is quite sure about, recordings fixed prior to that date were exempted from the federal statute and left to the protection of common law copyright in each state. At the time, all copyrights and works were still subject to the 1909 Act until the new federal law, the 1976 Act, went into effect for works created after January 1, 1978. And although sound recordings were a protected category, the radio broadcasters successfully lobbied against licensing for “public performance” of sound recordings on the then not-unreasonable claim that radio broadcast played a substantial role in record sales.

Later, with advances in digital and subscription services, a 1995 amendment added copyright protection (§106(6) of the statute) for “public performance of sound recordings by means of digital transmission.” But this still did not apply to recordings made before February 15, 1972. Fast forward to the current market, when digital streaming now owns a huge portion of the “radio” market and obliterates the need for record sales for a growing number of consumers, and this leaves performance licensing as almost the only source of revenue for sound recordings. Meanwhile, more than a few great sound recordings were made before 1972 that consumers are going to stream millions of times. So, the CLASSICS Act creates a means by which the performing artists who made those recordings can share in the new market.

Why Does Public Knowledge Care?

If streaming services have to pay royalties for these sound recordings, that’s as it should be; and if it has no bearing on consumers (in fact, it is more likely to improve our listening experience), why is Public Knowledge even piping up on the issue? It’s tempting to say that organizations like this just plain hate copyright and will, therefore, assail any proposal that strengthens the position of any rights holder. Or one might conclude, as Lowery does, that PK is acting as an industry-funded proxy to save the streaming services money by trying to kill this bill in the Senate.

Still, PK and other critics have presented a few law & policy arguments, and I’ll look at those in my next post on this topic. As a prelude, let me say for now that pre-72 recordings is an oddball in copyright law, allowing critics to cite a lot of draconian-sounding theory, even fogging the discussion by alluding to Edison’s 1877 sound recordings as remaining in a theoretical state of perpetual copyright. In practical terms, the CLASSICS Act is simply about compensating the artists (most likely active from the 1950s-1970s) who made the sound recordings you and I listen to all the time. And in legal terms, the bill actually appears to solve some of the problems Public Knowledge cites in its objections. But that’s for the next post.

Blurred Lines in More Ways Than One – Part III

As mentioned in Part II, I didn’t expect to write several posts about this litigation, but it turns out that “Blurred Lines” (Williams v. Gaye) raises several copyright issues—doctrinal, cultural, and historical—worthy of consideration and not easily condensed into a single article. In the first post, I alluded to an editorial written in 2015 by scholars Lateef Mtima and Sean O’Connor supporting the outcome in Williams from a historical perspective, asserting that traditional means of registering works and identifying infringement disfavored artists of color.

Citing this OpEd drew some criticism from a few readers, particularly musicians, who noted that people of color comprised two-thirds of the authors of “Blurred Lines” and that the Mtima/O’Connor opinion seems to be a matter of looking for a problem that doesn’t exist, comparable to often-overwrought and ahistorical complaints about “cultural appropriation.” But discussions about cultural cross-pollination in art are largely separate from the issues these scholars are raising about copyright law. Still, for context, we must  acknowledge that a vast amount of American popular music in the 20th century—jazz, blues, rock, funk, soul, R&B, rap, etc.—is more deeply rooted in African-American traditions than Euro-American traditions.

The amicus brief Mtima and O’Connor wrote with colleague Steven D. Jamar was submitted to the Ninth Circuit in 2016 on behalf of the Institute for Intellectual Property and Social Justice. It argues for affirming the jury’s verdict in Williams, concurring in part and dissenting in part with regard to the evidence admitted at trial. Although the jury arrived at the opinion favored by the brief’s authors, the reasons why Gaye’s sound recording was not admitted as evidence points to the fact that “Got To Give It Up” is among thousands of musical works that happen to fall within an abstruse window in copyright history that, the authors argue, especially disfavored artists of color. For concision I’ll refer to the amicus brief as the IPSJ Brief, which states …

“For reasons not fully known and not linked to any further change in the statute, at some point (in the 1930s we believe) the Copyright Office began requiring written notation deposits, before again allowing deposits of phonorecordings for musical compositions beginning in the 1980s, and again not linked to statutory changes.”

Like many artists who did not receive formal training, least of all in European staff notation, Marvin Gaye composed by getting the music that was inside him to come out through the instruments and the players and then record the finished sounds in the studio. Many composers—regardless of race or culture—work this way today, of course, and their sound recordings are both valid for copyright registration and as evidence in a prospective infringement litigation.

But Gaye’s 1977 hit was subject to the 1909 Copyright Act, and it predated the apparently inscrutable shift in USCO policy that finally allowed sound recordings as registration deposit copies in the 1980s. Although the IPSJ Brief cannot fully explain a rationale for the fifty-year period when only written-notation scores were accepted for deposit (e.g. the statute did not mandate this), the brief’s authors do allude to lingering, judicial ambiguity stemming from White-Smith v. Apollo, which held in 1908 that piano rolls were not copies of compositions because they were not readable by humans.

Had that ruling gone the other way, it might have set a precedent for accepting sound recordings as deposit copies much earlier in the 20th century. And although SCOTUS held that sound recordings are, constitutionally, “writings” in Goldstein v. California in 1973, there is apparently no clear explanation as to why the Copyright Office did not amend its deposit requirements for musical works for nearly another decade.

As a matter of social justice, and in the service of demanding that copyright must empower the broadest diversity of authors, the IPSJ Brief asserts that the seemingly arbitrary emphasis on written notation between the 1930s and the 1980s was especially harmful to artists of color, who composed almost exclusively in aural traditions. Certainly, it is hard to miss the fact that this period encompasses the span of time when certain styles of black music sneaked into the mainstream via white artists beginning in the 1950s and slowly gained wider acceptance as black music by black artists through the 1960s and 70s.

Partly because written-notation scores were required as registration deposit copies, composers like Gaye relied on other parties to transpose their sound recordings into musical notation. This practice led to two recurring problems, according to the IPSJ Brief: 1) the scores did not always adequately represent the compositions; and 2) unscrupulous managers, label owners, et al sometimes exploited the opportunity to falsely assert co-authorship of the compositions. The brief states …

“The Copyright Office should have accepted phonorecordings as registration deposits throughout the entire period in which the 1909 Act was in effect. Neither Gaye nor other composers should today be penalized by restricting evidence of their compositions to a stripped-down lead sheet deposit created to comply with an extra-statutory administrative practice, especially where that deposit does not match the work composed by the author in the studio.”

In the “Blurred Lines” case, the jury was not allowed to compare the two sound recordings but was allowed to consider the “lead sheets” and expert testimony by musicologists. As the IPSJ Brief explains, lead sheets are somewhat rudimentary versions of musical scores that are generally of use only to professional musicians, who can interpolate what’s not on the page and play the song (by ear or from memory) the way the composer meant for it to be played. To get an idea of the difference, I’ll borrow a reference cited in the Brief and direct you to the musicnotes.com page for “Got To Give It Up,” where you can play a computer’s interpretation of the score and decide how much those lifeless and literal beeps and bloops sound like the Marvin Gaye song you know.

The IPSJ Brief asserts that only the sound recording correctly represents the originality (ergo the protectable aspects) in Marvin Gaye’s composition—and that the same is true for thousands of compositions made by artists, who worked in aural traditions rather than standard notation during the roughly half-century at issue. Thus, the brief’s authors support the evidence presented by the Gayes’ musicologists, asserting that these experts correctly identified the protectable elements in the work, giving the jury fact-based reason to find infringement. Nevertheless, the authors remain critical of the fact that the sound recording of “Got To Give It Up” was not admitted into evidence.

The IPSJ Brief also argues that the outcome in Williams does not, as many fear, “copyright musical style.” To the contrary, the authors assert that the lines separating “style” (idea) from “originality” (expression) have instead been too often drawn incorrectly due to bias tilting toward certain musical traditions. In practical terms, this means that a composer like Gaye can arrange a dozen unprotectable ideas in a manner that is uniquely expressive, and this can only be analyzed in context to his studio-based process rather than on paper alone.

Whether or not one agrees with this analysis—or with the jury in Williams—Mtima, O’Connor, and Jamar offer an intriguing discussion about copyright history and practice during one of the most prolific, experimental, and culture-shattering periods in Western music. As much as it would be absurd to overlook American musicians of color between the 1930s and 1980s, it seems likewise inappropriate to ignore this aspect of the “Blurred Lines” case rather than to view it in tandem with the subjects of infringement doctrine, case law, and circuit court splits that this litigation has inspired other scholars to address.

Remembering Helen Levitt: “New York’s Visual Poet Laureate”

When I saw that this year’s World IP Day/Week celebrates the contributions of women, the first thought that came to mind was a memory of a chance meeting in the Spring of 1986 with a legendary photographer named Helen Levitt. My friend Josh and I were in New York City down from college and were supposed to stop by a gallery owned by a friend of his family. When we arrived, the owner, along with another woman who looked about seventy, was reviewing stacks of Levitt’s photographs. So, when Josh announced, “I love Helen Levitt,” he did not notice—but I did—that the older woman sitting at the end of the table, very quietly, almost to herself, said, “Thank you.”

Then, with proper introductions made, we were invited to join Ms. Levitt and the owner in poring over some of most widely-regarded images ever made in the genre of street photography. “They kept offering us more photographs like a pair of Jewish grandmothers serving chicken soup,” as Josh remembers it. At the age of eighteen, I had never heard of Helen Levitt or her work, but then neither had a lot of people due to the fact that she was an intensely shy and private person, shunning publicity for most of her more than sixty-year career capturing some of New York’s most poignant, charming, humorous, and painful little moments.

Had I thought of anything smart to ask, Levitt wouldn’t have wanted to answer it anyway, as NPR’s Melissa Block would later discover in a rare interview conducted in 2002. In response to Block asking about one photo depicting a group of girls on the sidewalk watching floating soap bubbles that seem to be following them, Levitt replied, “If it were easy to talk about, I’d be a writer. Since I’m inarticulate, I can express myself with images.”

In an era when the techno-pundits have preached to all the artists that they must abandon the concept of value in their works and instead “cultivate their personal brands” on the free platforms of abundance, this memory of a chance meeting with a woman and artist who rejected notoriety seems well suited to observing World IP Day 2018. Because without question, Levitt’s work speaks for itself, even if she was reluctant to speak for her work. As her friend, fan, and collaborator James Agee wrote in the introduction to her first book in 1965, “…the photographs as a whole body seem to me to combine in a unified view of the world, an uninsistent but irrefutable manifesto of a way a of seeing, and in a gentle and wholly unpretentious way, a major poetic work.”

Born in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn in 1913, Levitt dropped out of high school in her senior year and first learned basic photographic skills working for a commercial portrait photographer starting in 1931. By the mid-1930s, there was a growing emphasis on documentary photography, when artists like Walker Evans, Ben Shahn, and Dorothea Lange were hired by FDR’s Resettlement Administration to portray the effects of the depression and the famine of the “dust bowl.” Levitt, who would become a colleague of Evans and Shahn, was initially inspired to take pictures with a social agenda, but in that same 2002 interview, she said …

“I decided I should take pictures of working-class people and contribute to the movements. Whatever movements there were—Socialist, Communist, whatever was happening. And then, at one point, I saw the photographs of Cartier-Bresson, and I realized photography could be an art. That made me ambitious. I wanted to try to do something like that. Instead of pictures were being use for a purpose. Trying to approach making a picture that would stand up by itself.”

After Levitt met Bresson in 1935, accompanying him while he photographed the Brooklyn waterfront, she bought a used Leica the following year and taught herself composition by looking at art in museums. Then, when she began taking pictures in the city’s poorer neighborhoods, like Spanish Harlem and the Lower East Side, it was not as a documentarian but as an artist. Unlike the very specific empathy inspired by Lange’s beautifully heartbreaking “Migrant Mother,” Levitt abandoned that kind social commentary for something more subtle, or as Agee and many other critics would say, for photographs that are “lyrical.”

In the days before air conditioning and television, the streets of the neighborhoods Levitt visited were the living rooms and commons of the adults and—most of all—the playgrounds and “battlegrounds” of the the children. Here she found visual poetry.

In one of my favorite photos, a group of boys plays with a broken mirror on the sidewalk. Two of them pick through the jagged shards on the curb while another pair holds the empty, wooden mirror-frame upright so that what first grabs our attention is the small boy seated on a tricycle, positioned behind and, therefore, within the upheld frame. We instinctively see what looks like a reflection of a child who isn’t there until a moment of study corrects this perception. Particularly because of this frame-within-a-frame element, this image feels almost collage-like, composed of fragments, much like the broken bits of mirror being contemplated by the boys.

Like much of Levitt’s work, this photograph is full of kinetic energy, not so much telling a definitive story as inspiring the viewer to concoct any number of stories to describe the moments just before and just after the scene she has chosen to memorialize. Although the children in this image are demonstrably poor, neither that nor their multi-ethnicity is what Levitt presents or asks us to think about. To the contrary, the mood of the photo is more like a Rockwell idyll–just boys being boys. In this regard, it’s easy to wonder if Levitt’s profound shyness did not lend itself to a proclivity for the kind of detachment needed to make art from a keyhole view of real people. I asked my friend Marco North about Levitt’s influence on his own street photography, and he replied …

“She looked at the world really carefully, and recognized the most subtle gestures, the most fleeting laughter and elevated them to something fairly epic. I feel wisdom in her images, about life’s complexity – pain and triumph, joy and tears it is all there, with a gentle gaze, set inside a landscape (her pictures always carry context, a lot of environment with them.) I think Levitt taught me that there is a way to take the ugly, grotesque moments we witness in the street and just witness them, adding nothing overt to them, not commenting or romanticizing or demonizing – just putting a moment on a plate and serving it for lunch, no fancy parsley sprigs on it, just food for thought.”

Possibly inspired by Ben Shahn, Levitt often used a right-angle lens that allowed her to point the camera perpendicular to what she was really framing, thus preventing her subjects from altering their natural behavior for the camera. In that same NPR story, photography scholar and curator Maria Morris Hambourg describes Levitt as “like a cat, very quiet, very slight.” This jibes with the the resulting images suggesting that Levitt deftly maneuvered between the obvious icons of poverty—the broken, peeling, and threadbare neighborhoods—to capture intimate, human moments that her subjects sloughed off without the slightest awareness of their latent artistic value. As Joel Smith writes for The New York Review of Books, “Any human gesture in a street photograph—a swinging arm seen from this angle, a planted foot from that one—results from the posture and movements not of the subject alone but of two people, photographer and photographed.”

Levitt’s first solo exhibit was mounted at New York’s Museum of Modern Art in 1943. A year later she began collaborating with James Agee and artist Janice Loeb on a 14-minute film called In the Street. Essentially Levitt photographs in motion, segments from this film serve as the prologue to Episode Seven (2001) of Ric Burns’s New York documentary series. She received Guggenheim fellowships in 1959 and 1960 to resume her photography, this time in color. Although considered a pioneer in color work, many of her prints were unfortunately stolen out of the modest Greenwich Village walk-up apartment where Levitt lived alone for more than thirty years.

The first national retrospective of Levitt’s work was launched in 1991 by the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art; and in 1997, she received the International Center for Photography’s Master of Photography Infinity Award. Most of her books were published after 1987, when she was 74, suggesting Levitt might have been as reticent to market her work as she was to market herself—at least in contrast to many notable photographers. On March 29, 2009, she passed away in her sleep at the age of 95, and I wonder if there was still a box in the corner marked “Here and There,” the title of a book published in 2004.

Particularly because Helen Levitt never did “cultivate her brand,” her work, and its influence on countless subsequent photographers, says something about the meaning of “originality” in photography. The copyright skeptic often doubts the premise of “authorship,” particularly in works that are at least co-written by forces external to the author. As a mechanical (and now digital) medium of creation, photography has always been vulnerable to this criticism; and street photography might seem particularly “unoriginal” to some.

By contrast, numerous articles refer to Levitt as “New York’s visual poet laureate,” and although I cannot find the source of this accolade, it seems highly appropriate. In much the same way that Walt Whitman poeticized the precision of a blacksmith’s hammer or the dangling shawl of the prostitute in Leaves of Grass, Levitt’s street photographs are among the essential phrases in the city’s ever-expanding vernacular.