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A story about money
It was a wonderful experience', said Larry Richmond, hereditary president of The Richmond Organization. It was 2a.m. in Johannesburg, and Larry was telling me about his company's 'wonderful efforts' to make sure that justice was done to Solomon Linda. I wanted to hear everything, but we were on opposite sides of the planet, so I said, 'Hold it right there, I'm coming to see you'. I hung up, started packing and a few days later, I walked into TRO's HQ, a strangely quiet suite of offices in Manhattan.
The dusty old guitar in the waiting room was a relic of a long-gone era. Back in the forties, when TRO was young, eager songwriters streamed in here to audition their wares for Larry's dad, Howie, the firm's founder. If he liked the songs, he'd sign 'em up, transcribe 'em and secure a copyright. Then he'd send song pluggers out to place the tunes with stars whose recordings would generate income for the composer and the publisher, too. At the same time, salesmen would be flogging the sheet music, while bean counters in the back office collected royalties and kept an eye out for unauthorized versions.
In its heyday, TRO was a music publishing empire that spanned the globe, but it was forced into decline by the Seventies advent of savvy rock & roll accountants who advised clients to publish themselves, which was fairly easy and doubled one's songwriting income, given that old-style publishers generally claimed fifty percent of royalties for their services. By 1999, TRO was little more than a crypt for fabulously valuable old copyrights, manned by a skeleton crew that licenses old songs for TV commercials or movies.
Larry Richmond was an amiable bloke in an open-necked shirt and beige slacks. We drank coffee and talked for an hour or two, mostly about social justice and TRO's commitment to the same. There were stories about Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, the famous radical troubadours in TRO's stable. There was a story about the hospital in India, to which the Richmonds made generous donations. And finally, there were some elliptical remarks about Solomon Linda, and TRO's noble attempts to make sure that he received his just dues. I was hoping Larry would give me a formal interview on the subject, but first I had get some sleep. It was a mistake. By the time I'd recovered, he'd retreated into the labyrinth of his voicemail system, from which he would not emerge. So there I was in New York, with no one to talk to. I called music lawyers and record companies, angling for appointments that failed to materialize. I wandered into Billboard magazine, where a veteran journalist warned that I was wasting my time trying to find out what any song had ever earned and where the money had gone. But I'd come a long way, so I kept looking and, eventually, figured some of it out.
The story begins in 1939, when Solomon Linda was visited by angels in Africa's only recording studio. At the time, Jo'burg was a hick mining town where music deals were concluded according to trading principles as old as Moses: record companies bought recordings for whatever they thought the music might be worth in the marketplace; stars generally got several guineas for a session, unknowns got almost nothing. No one got royalties, and copyright was unknown. Solomon Linda didn't even get a contract. He walked out of that session with about ten shillings in his pocket, and the music thereafter belonged to the record company, with no further obligations to anyone. When 'Mbube' became a local hit, the loot went to Eric Gallo, the playboy who owned the company. All Solomon Linda got was a menial job at the boss's packing plant, where he worked for the rest of his days.
When 'Mbube' took flight and turned into the Weavers' hit 'Wimoweh', Gallo could have made a fortune if he had played his cards right. Instead, he struck a handshake deal with Larry Richmond's dad, trading 'Mbube' to TRO in return for the dubious privilege of administering 'Wimoweh' in such bush territories as South Africa and Rhodesia. Control of Solomon Linda's destiny thus passed into the hands of Howie Richmond and his faithful sidekick, one Albert Brackman.
Howie and Al shared an apartment in the thirties, when they were ambitious young go-getters on Tin Pan Alley. Howie was tall and handsome, Al was short and fat, but otherwise, they were blood brothers, with shared passions for nightlife and big-band jazz. After World War II, Howie worked as a song promoter before deciding to become a publisher in his own right. He says he found a catchy old music-hall number, had a pal write new lyrics and placed the song with Guy Lombardo, who took it to Number Ten as 'Hop Scotch Polka'. Howie was on his way. Al joined up in 1949, and together they put a whole slew of novelty songs on the hit parade. Then they moved into the burgeoning folk-music sector, where big opportunities were opening up for sharp guys with a shrewd understanding of copyright.
After all, what was a folk song? Who owned it? It was just out there, like a wild horse or a tract of virgin land on an unconquered continent. Fortune awaited the man bold enough to fill out the necessary forms and name himself as the composer of some ancient tune like, say, 'Greensleeves'. A certain Jessie Cavanaugh did exactly that in the early fifties, only it wasn't really Jessie at all - it was Howie Richmond under an alias. This was a common practice on Tin Pan Alley at the time, and it wasn't illegal or anything. The object was to claim writer royalties on new versions of old songs that belonged to no one. The aliases seem to have been a way to avoid potential embarrassment, just in case word got out that Howard S. Richmond was presenting himself as the author of a madrigal from Shakespeare's day.
Much the same happened with 'Frankie & Johnny', the hoary old murder ballad, or 'Rovin' Kind', a ribald ditty from the clipper-ship era. There's no way Al Brackman could really have written such songs, so when he filed royalty claims with the performing rights society BMI, he attributed the compositions to Albert Stanton, a fictitious tunesmith who often worked closely with the imaginary Mr. Cavanaugh, penning such standards as 'John Henry' and 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore'. Cavanaugh even claimed credit for 'Battle Hymn of the Republic', a feat eclipsed only by a certain Harold Leventhal, who copyrighted an obscure whatnot that turned out to be India's national anthem.
Leventhal started out as a gofer for Irving Berlin and wound up promoting concerts for Bob Dylan, but in between, he developed a serious crush on the Weavers. In 1949, he showed up at the Village Vanguard with an old friend in tow - Pete Kameron , a suave charmer who was scouting around an entree into showbiz. Leventhal performed some introductions, and Kameron became the Weavers' manager. Since all these players knew one another, it was natural that they should combine to take charge of the left-wingers' business affairs. Leventhal advised; Kameron handled bookings and tried to fend off the redbaiters. Howie and Al took on the publishing, arranging it so that Kameron [HOW DO WE KNOW THIS? First mentioned by hellerman, confirmed in writing by K hisself] owned a fifty-percent stake. The Weavers sang the songs and cut the records, and together they sold around 4 million platters in eighteen months or so.
Toward the end of 1951, these men found themselves contemplating the fateful 78 rpm record from Africa and wondering exactly what manner of beast it could be. The label said 'Mbube', by Solomon Linda and the Evening Birds, but it had never been copyrighted. Anything not copyrighted was a wild horse, strictly speaking, and wild horses in the Weavers' repertoire were usually attributed to one Paul Campbell. The Weavers' version of 'Hush Little Baby' was a Paul Campbell composition, for instance. The same was true of 'Rock Island Line' and 'Kisses Sweeter than Wine', tunes the folkies had learned off Leadbelly at Village hoots and rewritten in their own style.
On the surface of things, Paul Campbell was thus one of the most successful songwriters of the era, but of course the name was just another alias used to claim royalties on reworked songs from the public domain. 'Mbube' wasn't public domain at all, but it was the next best thing - an uncopyrighted song owned by an obscure foreign record label that had shown absolutely no interest in protecting Solomon Linda's rights as a writer. So the Zulu's song was tossed in among the Weavers' wild horses, and released as 'Wimoweh', by Paul Campbell.
As the song found its fans, money started rolling in. Every record sale triggered a mechanical royalty. Every radio play counted as a performance, which also required payment, and there was always the hope that someone might take out a 'synch license' to use the tune in a movie or TV ad. Al, Howie and Pete Kameron divided the standard publisher's fifty percent among themselves and distributed the other half to the writers - or in this case, adapters: Pete Seeger and the Weavers. Solomon Linda was entitled to nothing.
This didn't sit well with Seeger, who openly acknowledged Linda as the true author of 'Wimoweh' and felt he should get the money. Indeed, he'd been been hassling his publishers for months to find a way of paying the Zulu. 'Originally they were going to send the royalties to Gallo', Seeger recalls. 'I said, 'Don't do that, because Linda won't get a penny.' ' Anti-apartheid activists put Seeger in touch with a Johannesburg lawyer, who set forth into the forbidden townships to find Solomon Linda. Once contact was established, Seeger sent the Zulu a $1,000 check, and instructed his publisher to do the same with all future payments.
He was still bragging about it fifty years later. 'I never got author's royalties on Wimoweh', Seeger says. 'Right from '51 or '52, I understood that the money was going to Linda. I assumed they were keeping the publisher's fifty percent and sending the rest'. Unfortunately, Linda's family maintains that the money only arrived years later, and even then, it was nothing like the full writer's share Seeger was hoping to bestow.
We'll revisit this conundrum in short order, but first, let's follow the further adventures of 'Wimoweh', which fell into the hands of RCA producers Hugo and Luigi by way of the Tokens in the summer of 1961. In addition to being ace producers and buddies of Presley, these men were also wild-horse breakers of the very first rank. They'd put their brand on a whole herd of them - 'Pop Goes the Weasel', 'First Noel', you name it. They even had 'Grand March from Aida', a smash hit for Guiseppe Verdi in the 1870s.
As seasoned pros, these guys would have checked out 'Wimoweh' composer of record Paul Campbell and discovered that he was an alias and that his oeuvre consisted largely of folk songs from previous centuries. They seemingly leapt to the obvious conclusion: 'Wimoweh' was based on an old African folk song that didn't belong to anyone. As such, it was fair game, so they summoned George Weiss, turned 'Wimoweh' into 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight', and sent it out into the world as a Weiss/Peretti/Creatore composition. They did exactly the same thing four months later with 'The Click Song', a Xhosa tune popularized in America by Miriam Makeba: Weiss cooked up some more doggerel about jungle drums and love- lorn maidens, the Tokens sang it, and it landed in record stores as 'Bwanina', another 'original composition' by the same trio.
But they had made a mistake. 'The Click Song' was indeed a wild horse that had been roaming Africa for centuries, but 'Mbube' was an original, the subject of a US copyright taken out by Gallo back in '52 and subsequently traded to TRO in the spectacularly stupid 'Wimoweh' deal. When 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' began playing on America's radios, Howie Richmond instantly recognized its bloodline and howled with outrage. He set his lawyers on The Tokens and their allies, and what could they say? It must have been deeply embarrassing for all concerned, but what the heck -- Howie was on first-name terms with Hugo and Luigi, and deeply respectful of Weiss's lyric talents. He was willing to forget the whole thing - provided the publishing rights to 'Lion' came back to him.
Within a week there was a letter acknowledging infringement on Howie's desk, and urgent settlement talks were underway. Why urgent? Because 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' was soaring up the charts, and the Weiss/Peretti/Creatore cabal was desperate to avoid a dispute that might abort its trajectory. This put Richmond and Brackman in a position to dictate almost any terms they pleased. They didn't have a contract with Solomon Linda, but there was nothing to prevent them from making demands on his behalf. They could even have forced Luigi, Hugo and Weiss to settle for a smaller adapters' cut and have allocated everything else to the Zulu, but this might have soured an important business relationship, and besides, they weren't legally obliged. So they just allowed three men they were later to describe as 'plagiarists' to walk away with 100 percent of the writer royalties on a song that originated in Solomon Linda's brain.
And why not? It was no skin off their teeth. TRO received the full fifty percent publisher's cut. Huge and Luge and Weiss were happy. The only person who lost out was Linda, who wasn't even mentioned in any document: The new copyright described 'Lion' as 'based on a song by Paul Campbell'.
The paperwork was finalized on December 18th, 1961, just as the song commenced its conquest of the world's hit parades. It was Number One in the States on Christmas Day, and reached South Africa two months later, just in time to bring a wan smile to the face of a dying Solomon Linda. He'd been ailing since 1959, when he lost control of his bowels and collapsed onstage. Doctors diagnosed kidney disease, but his family suspected witchcraft.
If true, this would make Linda a victim of his own success. Sure, he was nothing in the world of white men, but 'Mbube' made him a legend in the Zulu subculture, and to be a legend among 'the people of heaven' was a pretty fine destiny in some respects. Strangers hailed him on the streets, bought him drinks in shebeens. He was in constant demand for personal appearances and earned enough to afford some sharp suits, a second bride and a wind-up gramophone for the kinfolk in mud huts back in Msinga.
A thousand bucks from Pete Seeger aside, most of his money came from those uproarious all-night song contests, which remain a vital part of urban Zulu social life to this day. Most weekends, Solly and the Evening Birds would hire a car and sally forth to do battle in distant towns, and they always came back victorious. Competitors tried everything, including potions, to make their voices hoarse and high like Linda's, but nothing worked. The aging homeboys would take the stage and work themselves into such transports of ecstasy that tears started streaming down Solly's face, at which point the audience would go wild and the Evening Birds would once again walk off with first prize - sometimes a trophy, sometimes money, sometimes a cow that they slaughtered as the sun came up, roasted and shared with their fans. Blinded by the resulting adulation, Linda wasn't particularly perturbed when his song mutated into 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' and raced to the top of the world's hit parades. 'He was happy', said his daughter Fildah. 'He didn't know he was supposed to get something'.
Fildah is Linda's oldest surviving child, a radiant woman who wears beads in her hair and a goatskin bangle on her right wrist, the mark of a sangoma, or witchdoctor. Her sister Elizabeth works as a nurse in a government clinic, but she announced, giggling, that she was a sangoma, too. A third daughter, Delphi, had just had surgery for arthritis, but she was also using ancestral medicine under her sisters' direction - a plant called 'umhlabelo', apparently. Elizabeth thought a water snake might be useful, too, and wondered where she could obtain such a thing. They live in an urban slum but are deeply Zulu people, down to the cattle horns on the roof above the kitchen door - relics of sacrifices to the spirits of their ancestors. Only Elizabeth spoke fluent English, but even she didn't flinch at the talk of witchcraft.
Their aunt, Mrs. Beauty Madiba, was the one who brought it up. A sweet old lady in her Sunday best, she remembered meeting Linda in the late forties, when he started to court her sister Regina. The singer was at the peak of his career at the time, and he had no trouble raising the ten cattle their father was asking as the bride price. The wedding feast took place in 1949, and Regina went to live in Johannesburg. Beauty joined her a few years later and had a ringside seat when Linda was brought down by dark forces. 'People were jealous, because all the time, he won', she explained. 'They said, 'We will get you.' So they bewitched him'.
Elizabeth muttered something about renal failure, but even she had to acknowledge there was something odd about the way her father's disease refused to respond to treatment. He grew so sick that he had to stop singing. By the time 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' was released, he was in and out of the hospital constantly, and on October 8th, 1962, he died.
Everyone sighed. 'It was the King Star Brothers and the Five Roses', growled Victor Madondo, a burly old warrior whose father sang alto in the Evening Birds. 'They were happy, because now they could go forward nicely'.
But they went nowhere. Linda was the one whose influence lived on, becoming so pervasive that all Zulu male choral singing came to be called 'Mbube music'. Ethnomusicologists dug up the early Birds recordings, and Linda was posthumously elevated to godhead - 'one of the great figures in black South African music', according to professor Veit Erlmann of the University of Texas. Latter-day Mbube stars like Ladysmith Black Mambazo sent gifts to this very house when they made it big, a tribute to the spirit of a man they venerated. And then I came along asking questions about money.
It soon became clear that Linda's daughters had no understanding of music publishing and related arcana. All they knew was that 'people did something with our father's song outside', and that monies were occasionally deposited in their joint bank account by mysterious entities they could not name. I asked to see documents, but they had none, and they were deeply confused as to the size and purpose of the payments. 'Mister Tucker is helping us', they said. 'Mister Tucker knows everything'.
Raymond Tucker is a white lawyer with offices in a grand old colonial mansion on the outskirts of downtown Jo'burg. On the phone, he explained that Pete Seeger and TRO contacted him at some point in the mid-1960s, asking him to act as a conduit for payments to Linda's widow. Tucker was honored to help out, he said. As we spoke, he flipped through his files, assuring me that royalty payments were 'pretty regular, with proper accounting' and that everything was 'totally and absolutely above board'.
Solomon's daughters didn't contest this, but they were surprised to learn that their mother had received royalties back in the Sixties. Their mother, Regina, was an illiterate peasant with no job and six children to feed. Her husband's death in 1962 was a catastrophe beyond reckoning. She brewed and sold African beer in a desperate attempt to make ends meet. Her girls went to school barefoot, took notes on cracked bits of slate and went to bed hungry. Critical Zulu death rites went unperformed for years, because the family was too poor to pay a sangoma to officiate.
'This house, it was bare bricks', said Elizabeth. 'No ceiling, no plaster, no furniture, just one stool and one coal stove'. Her eldest brother left school and started working, but he was murdered by gangsters. Her second brother became the breadwinner, only to die in an accident, whereupon Delphi took a job in a factory to keep the family going. 'There was suffering here at home', said Elizabeth. She was pretty sure that the money 'from outside' arrived only after 1980. Her sisters agreed. That's when they erected a tombstone for their father, who had rested in a pauper's grave since 1962. That's how they remembered.
I asked Tucker if I could see his files, but he balked, citing his clients confidentiality. I obtained a letter from the daughters and called to discuss it, but Tucker slammed the phone down, so I wrote a note, pointing out that the daughters were legally and morally entitled to information. In response came a series of letters accusing me of misrepresenting myself as a 'white knight', when I was clearly just a devious muckraker intent on 'writing an article for your own gain'. 'I have absolutely no intention of cooperating with a journalist of your type', he sniffed.
Defeated on that front, I sent an email to Larry Richmond, asking him to clarify the size and nature of TRO's payments to Linda's family. 'It will take some time to review your letter', he wrote back. 'I hope to get back to you in due course'. Months passed, but nothing happened, so I appealed to Harold Leventhal, the grandfatherly figure who had once managed the Weavers' affairs. 'You're in a void', he said, sounding sympathetic. 'All you can do is describe it, or you'll never finish your story'. A wise man would have heeded his advice, but I plodded onward until someone took pity and provided me with a few key documents. Ambiguities remained, but at least I found out why the publishers and their cronies were so coy about making disclosures: it looked as if Linda's family was receiving around 12.5 percent of the profits on 'Wimoweh', and around two to three percent of those from 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight'.
The payments on 'Lion' were coming out of 'performance royalties', jargon for the bucks generated when a song is broadcast. The sums in question averaged around $275 a quarter in the early Nineties, but who are we to raise eyebrows? Solomon's family was desperate and grateful for the smallest blessing. The money 'from outside' enabled his widow to feed her children and educate the two youngest, Elizabeth and Adelaide. After Regina's death in 1990, Raymond Tucker set up a joint bank account for the daughters in which small sums of money continued to materialize. ___ It was never very much, but it was enough to build a tin shack in their back yard and rent it out for extra money, and even start a little shop at the front gate. In American terms, their poverty remained appalling, but in their own estimation, this was a happy ending - until I showed up, and told them what might have been.
It's November 1991, and we're in a bland conference room in the American Arbitration Association's New York headquarters. At the head of a long table sit three veteran copyright lawyers who will act as judges in these proceedings. Ranged before them are the warring parties: the entire cast of the 1961 'Lion Sleeps Tonight' plagiarism contretemps, either in person or legally represented.
Hugo Perretti died a few years back, but fortune has smiled hugely on the rest of the guys since last we saw them. Howie Richmond published the Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd for a while and is now rich beyond wild imaginings. His sidekick Al Brackman (who got ten percent of all Howie's deals) is rich, too, and putters around in boats on weekends and winters at his second home near San Diego. Luigi Creatore has retired to Florida on the proceeds of his many hit records.
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