Collective Ownership in Music

In 2005, a young singer-songwriter in Nashville, Tennessee signed a contract with then-nascent Big Machine Records. Her self-titled debut album was a success, and was followed by a series of even bigger hits, each one exponentially more profitable than the one preceding, reaching sales that are almost entirely unheard of in the streaming era.
After her Big Machine contract expired, in 2018, the artist signed a record deal with Republic Records. In the meantime, music executive and entrepreneur, Scooter Braun, purchased Big Machine from its founder and previous owner, Scott Borchetta, for $330 million, a move which made him the owner of all the masters, music videos, and artworks copyrighted by Big Machine.
The artist, Taylor Swift, attempted to buy back her masters, but was offered unfavourable conditions. In 2019, Swift entered a dispute with Borchetta and Braun, over the ownership of her master and went on to announce that she would re-record her first six records, those initially released under Big Machine, in an effort to reclaim her artistry.
Although this story is about one artist’s battle for ownership over her works, the matter of ownership more broadly and how it applies in the music industry is especially fraught, particularly in the digital era, during which art is even more elusive, no longer bound to materiality.
This was not the first time Swift made headlines for upending music industry standards. In 2014, she had a public dispute with Spotify in 2014 when she removed her entire music catalogue from the streaming platform. (She has since brought her music back to Spotify, alongside other major streaming platforms). Her primary concern at the time was that Spotify's free tier, which was supported by ads and offered low payouts to artists, devalued her music and didn't compensate artists fairly.

“Music is art, and art is important and rare,” she wrote at the time, in a Wall Street Journal op-ed ⁽¹⁾. “Important, rare things are valuable. Valuable things should be paid for.”
Swift is, of course, one of the biggest artists in the world, and so it is difficult to view her as a struggling artist exploited by an unfair system. But this spat is culturally significant, as it emphasized the importance of artists having a say in how their work is distributed and compensated.
When we think about art and culture, we often invoke ideas of creative genius and authorship. The “artist at work” is solitary, toiling away in a “room of one’s own,” transforming a gift that was bestowed upon them into artworks that are deeply personal and a product of their creators’ unique expressive power.

The romantic notion of a singular auteur is easier to digest and far more intriguing than the reality. On the one hand, individual charismatic artists who reach heights of commercial success reap all the benefits, while teams of underpaid writers, producers, engineers, and so forth, often labour in the shadows, underappreciated and forgotten.
“The simple historical fact that much or perhaps even most art has routinely been created by more than one person – from the work of Michelangelo’s assistants to the creation of performances and orchestral concerts – has not significantly altered this standard image of the lone creator,” writes media scholar Jostein Gripsrud ⁽²⁾. 
On the other hand, the image of the lone, struggling genius still captivates our collective imagination. Musicians are led to believe that their talent, dedication, and a stroke of luck will pave their way to success. These hopeful artists are often thrilled to be recognized, but may find themselves pressured into relinquishing their rights to publishers, managers, and executives, who ultimately reap the rewards of their hard work. This leads to a music landscape in which profits are unequally distributed, leaving most working artists struggling to earn a fair share of the revenue they generate.

In music, collective ownership refers to a model where music and its associated rights are collectively owned or managed by a group of individuals, often musicians, songwriters, and other stakeholders, rather than being solely owned by individuals or corporations.

Collective ownership
Collective ownership as a mode of ownership has been defined and dissected elsewhere in this webdocu. A brief definition of collective ownership: This is a system in which assets, resources, or property are owned and controlled jointly by a group of individuals or a community rather than being owned by individuals or private entities. It is distinct from common ownership, which refers to the collective ownership of resources or assets by a community as a whole.
Here I will be exploring its application in music, an interest which grew from my personal reflections on ownership and authorship, both as a writer and as an occasional DJ who grapples with the (literal and metaphorical) price tag of ethical DJing. In music, collective ownership refers to a model where music and its associated rights are collectively owned or managed by a group of individuals, often musicians, songwriters, and other stakeholders, rather than being solely owned by individuals or corporations. This approach aims to ensure fair compensation, control, and decision-making power for all contributors, fostering a more equitable and collaborative music industry.
I recall the inception of Aslice in 2020 as a pivotal moment for my own engagement with the subject. Aslice is a service created by Minneapolis techno legend DVS1 which distributes a portion of performing DJs’ fees to the producers whose music the former played ⁽³⁾. I didn’t expect this innocuous enough mission to be met with controversy, but venturing into Reddit ⁽⁴⁾ (as one does when one seeks answers to difficult questions), I promptly ate my words. While plenty of commenters found the idea of DJs sharing their profits with the artists who made their career possible to be fair, others were not so certain.
“This should be targeted mainly for tier 1 DJ's, they're the ones getting all the music for free and making all the money,” writes one user, while another wonders, “How does this impact small DJs who make pittance for playing, or even worse, pay for playing?” Someone else responds simply with: “What. The Fuck!?”
And what happens when a DJ is also a producer? Do they pay themselves for playing their own music?

What’s left of copyright?
Much of the discourse on music ownership revolves around copyright. Going back to Aslice, although it does not explicitly advocate for collective ownership, its creators seem to be preoccupied with questions of copyright, as it turns out this is a far more complex matter than previously thought.
Is there an alternative?

Based on the philosophy that knowledge, information and software should be accessible to all, copyleft isn't about abolishing copyrights, but rather is a way to use copyright law to promote openness.

Copyleft is a licensing arrangement that allows for the redistribution and modification of creative works, making them “free” to be tinkered with, transformed, and shared. While copyright is a legal framework that grants exclusive rights to the creator of a work, restricting how others can use, copy, or distribute it, copyleft, in contrast, is a deliberate choice made by creators to allow more freedom for users. Based on the philosophy that knowledge, information and software should be accessible to all ⁽⁵⁾, copyleft isn't about abolishing copyrights, but rather is a way to use copyright law to promote openness.
Let’s say a producer releases a copyleft track. This is a clarion call to the artistic community: "Use me, remix me, edit me." As a user, you're handed the keys to the kingdom, a carte blanche to download, reshape, and share this musical canvas with the world. But this is not a one-way street. By partaking, you commit to a unique social contract; you agree to a principle of reciprocity.
The code, the canvas, the music, and the words are free –not as commodities, but as living, breathing ideas that evolve through collective effort. Artistry then becomes a communal experience.
There are several copyleft licenses, but two of the most well-known are:
1) GNU General Public License (GPL): This license ensures that software and its derivatives remain open-source. If you modify or distribute software under the GPL, you must also make your modifications available under the same terms.
2) Creative Commons ShareAlike (CC BY-SA): While often used for creative works, CC BY-SA is also a copyleft license. It allows others to remix, adapt, and build upon a work, but any derived works must be licensed under the same terms.

Never break the (block)chain: DAOs and the contested promise of crypto-utopia
Web3, the iteration of the internet that follows Web 2.0, is built upon blockchain protocols, which encompass cryptocurrencies and non-fungible tokens (NFTs). Judging by the volatility of this landscape, coupled with the recent revelation that, two years since gaining widespread attention, NFTs have largely lost their value. A question arises: Is this a fleeting bubble or a phenomenon that is here to stay? Nonetheless, blockchain technology has ushered in novel dynamics that are reshaping how we perceive and interact with digital assets.

One of the key discussions surrounding blockchain technology revolves around its potential for disruption, especially as advocated by its supporters, who argue that by removing intermediaries, blockchain shifts the dynamics in favour of artists.
One way in which this can be done is through DAOs, or decentralized autonomous organizations, which, in theory, are community-driven and uphold principles of transparency and democracy.
To understand more about DAOs and the impact of blockchain on music, I turned to Kareem de Vries, Web3 specialist and advisor, who says: “In my experience, the one thing that seems to even attract the (blockchain) skeptics are DAOs”.
So what are they? De Vries says that a DAO is an internet-native business that’s collectively owned and managed by its members. Once a DAO is created, tokens are issued and distributed over various stakeholders, similar to how publicly traded companies operate. The more even the distribution, the more decentralized the DAO is. These tokens generally do not have any monetary value, but they may have, depending on the initial set-up of the DAO.
Decision-making follows a decentralized governance mechanism akin to the principles of a public referendum. Influence within this system is directly tied to the number of tokens one possesses, and the scope of these decisions can range from pivotal strategic choices to day-to-day operations.
DAOs operate with predefined rules embedded in their protocols, typically enforced by blockchain-based algorithms. Essentially, as “a crypto cooperative-style means of organizing,” ⁽⁶⁾ they represent a new way of (purportedly) democratically governing an enterprise. Decentralized applications are predicated on smart contracts, which are algorithmically run and are meant to automate decisions. “Smart contracts are hard-coded, conditional agreements that blockchain users can interact with: if X then Y,” says de Vries.
That all sounds good and well, since automating decisions seemingly removes many quandaries from the equation. However, treating code as entirely impartial, and humans as totally rational actors, has led many to uncritically herald the arrival of a regulation-free utopia, one which bears the markings of a polished Ponzi scheme ⁽⁷⁾.
According to de Vries, “there are two main sources responsible for the pitfalls in DAOs: Disproportionate control by the DAO founders, and structural problems involving DAOs.” Structural problems can occur during the voting process. Namely, who decides what the DAO members vote on? Who can guarantee that all the DAO members are making informed decisions? And so forth.
Ethereum cofounder Vitalik Buterin argues that cryptocurrencies provide a “way to pool together our money and support public projects and activities that help create the society we want to see,” by cutting out the middleman from online transactions.
Yet despite its apparent idealism, Buterin’s vision lacks any sort of concrete political framework or underpinnings. In fact, the crypto vision seems entirely disinterested in politics altogether. DAOs are emblematic of the “dotcom neoliberalism” of Silicon Valley and its adjacent Californian Ideology, which banalizes elements of counterculture by attempting to reconcile them with growth-oriented technocapitalism and neoliberalism.
The market value of cryptocurrencies is closely connected to the amount of energy used for "mining,” which contributes to huge amounts of e-waste. Therefore, one must be critical in the face of any invocation of transparency, decentralization, or disruption.

What’s after DAOs?
Although DAOs’ co-op metaphor is fraught, the co-op model itself is indeed conducive to a more egalitarian cultural landscape. With streaming being the dominant way in which we experience music nowadays, can we imagine a way in which this is done ethically?
Resonate is the first community-owned music streaming service “run democratically for the needs and dreams of artists, listeners, and workers” ⁽⁸⁾. Grounded in principles of anticapitalism and anticolonialism ⁽⁹⁾, it goes beyond empty calls for openness and transparency, and into the nitty gritty of equity.
Community-owned music streaming services are emerging as a response to the challenges and criticisms associated with traditional, corporate-owned platforms. These services are typically characterized by being collectively owned or governed by a community of artists, music enthusiasts, and other stakeholders. Such services are structured as cooperatives, where both artists and fans have a say in the platform's governance.
Some, but not all, are built on blockchain technology.

As culture becomes increasingly platformized, it becomes imperative to ensure that tech corporations don’t hold all the cards.

Resonate follows a model of “No subscription. No ads. No corporation selling your data. No bots telling you what to like,” which strives for fairness by charging listeners a fraction of a penny for their initial play, with costs increasing gradually upon replays until they own the track for approximately $1.40.
Artists earn at least a penny on each stream, and can cash out after accumulating about $11. A 70% artist cut ensures fair compensation, while the remaining 30% is reinvested in a cooperative pool, shared among members, including the artists. This approach provides a balanced and sustainable solution that rewards both listeners and artists in the music industry.
Such platforms are not only informed by the idea that music is art, not content, but aim to foster a landscape in which technology addresses the needs of people, focused on building community and mutualism. As culture becomes increasingly platformized, it becomes imperative to ensure that tech corporations don’t hold all the cards. This means that privacy, inclusivity, and ethics should not be afterthoughts, but be baked into the design ⁽¹⁰⁾ of any initiative.

Empowering working musicians beyond streams and sales
In all of this, there is a focus on musicians who produce their own music and/or perform. But a large swathe of working musicians are working in education. “Whilst performing musicians invariably grab the limelight,” writes journalist Simon Birch in The Guardian ⁽¹¹⁾, “the reality is that around two thirds of the MU's members earn their living from working in education as music teachers.” Amid growing austerity and cuts to art funds, musicians are turning to the co-op model to stay afloat. Several successful music teacher co-ops have emerged as responses to cuts in public music education services.
These co-ops bring together educators in collaboration, allowing them to collectively manage their teaching endeavours, to share resources, to divvy up administrative duties, and even to access larger pools of eager learners. The co-operative business model already exists in Canada, Australia, and the United Kingdom. While there are currently around 20 registered musician co-ops, there may be more unregistered or unrecognized co-operatives in existence.
By adopting a co-operative model, musicians working in education can, in theory, maintain stable employment, at a time of funding cuts and dire economic challenges. In the UK, for example, where the co-op business model is referred to as a “music education co-operative,” The Musicians' Union (MU) has partnered with Co-operatives UK to promote the co-operative model among its members, emphasizing better working conditions and protections.
The shared ownership and sense of responsibility within co-ops help musicians weather financial challenges and navigate fragmentation and dwindling job security prevalent in this deeply precarious industry.
While co-operatives can be a response to neoliberalism, it’s important to remain critical to the realities of labour conditions. Many members of musician co-operatives are freelance or self-employed individuals, and this status is often the very driving force behind the formation of such co-ops. In a wider labour landscape marked by precarity, deregulation, and instability, are such co-operatives merely another symptom of an exploitative gig economy, while failing to address the wider systemic issues in music education and its accessibility?

Who owns culture?
Looking at the contemporary music landscape, where the charts are dominated by interpolations, samples, and bitter disputes over who came up with this chord progression or that melody, we tend to forget that music creation has always been a collective enterprise. As digital technology has greatly expanded collaborative possibilities, and since music compositions started to incorporate various elements sourced from different contributors, the very idea of ownership has also been problematized.
In the grand scheme of things, any ownership model treating music as a mere money-making commodity is troublesome. Art and culture have value that should not be quantified by the usual metrics of profitability. Music is culture, and culture is in flux, always co-constitutively shaped by the collaborative interplay between artists, audiences, media, critics, and other parties.
Collective ownership is a fraught term, as are terms like private, personal, and public property. Given the strong influence of quixotic notions around idiosyncratic artistry, individual creativity, and genius, with the slippery nature of music as a cultural product (particularly in today's platform-driven era), it's tough to completely let go of the traditional concepts of ownership. However, we need to do just that if we want to foster a fairer cultural landscape, for artists and listeners alike.

(1) For Taylor Swift the future of music is a love story, read article

(2) See page 215 of this publication

(3) Aslice faq

(4) DVS1 launches software so DJs can donate a percentage of gig fees to producers, read

(5) What is Copyleft?, read

(6) Felt Zine on DAOs, ZORA, and Creating Together, read

(7) Jacobin - Cryptocurrency Is a Giant Ponzi Scheme, read

(8) Welcome - let’s build a music streaming co-op, read

(9) Resonate - It’s time to Play fair, read

(10) Resonate - It’s time to Play fair, read

(11) The Guardian - Music co-operatives: helping artists survive amid austerity, read