Gordon Lightfoot’s death last month reignited a burning question that’s nagged me for years: How did the writers of “The Greatest Love of All” not get sued?
To my ears, the refrain of that song, probably best known as a 1980s Whitney Houston chart-topper, follows Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” note for note. That didn’t stop Houston, George Benson and others from scoring hit records with it.
And as it turns out, the stunning similarity wasn’t lost on Lightfoot, who did indeed bring legal action before backing off. In the ultimate nice-guy move, he didn’t want to tarnish Houston, who merely sang the song and had nothing to do with the writing of one of her biggest hits. The writers settled with Lightfoot to bring an unusually happy ending to the story.
But it’s a question that comes up repeatedly over the history of pop music. When does flattery cross the line into imitation? When does influence become appropriation? Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart once famously defined obscenity as “I know it when I see it.” So does it follow in music that we know an obvious ripoff when we hear it? Because in subjective terms, “obvious” isn’t always, well, obvious, and cases are rarely as clear-cut as Lightfoot’s.
The classic example is George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord,” in which anyone in their right mind (excepting Harrison) recognizes the melody and structure of the Chiffons’ “He So Fine.” Harrison’s ex-band mate, John Lennon, found himself in similar trouble with his “Come Together,” which lifted lyrical and stylistic elements of Chuck Berry’s “You Can’t Catch Me.” It was concerning enough to Paul McCartney that he suggested slowing the tempo and adding his heavy bass line, but that didn’t stave off legal issues that dogged Lennon for years.
Other cases are more muddied. The estate of Marvin Gaye has balked more than once at hit records that his family claimed borrowed from the soul legend, although more in style and spirit than any actual lyric or musical riff. They were successful against Robin Thicke for “Blurred Lines,” then recently lost over Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud.” Still, both cases raised interesting and troubling questions over influence and tribute. If a successful recording artist like Sheeran likes Gaye’s style and wants to record a song in that vein, isn’t he allowed to acknowledge the influence? Lennon may well have asked the same question of his beloved Chuck Berry.
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The crux, as always, is money. For the ridiculous sums these recordings earn, writers who may genuinely enjoy the flattery also realize they deserve — and are owed — a piece of the profits they generate. But we should remind the Chuck Berrys and Marvin Gayes that, with rare exceptions, no one invents a style out of thin air, and their catalogs are also a product of earlier musical influences. It’s the beauty of how musical expression evolves over generations. Let’s not let a cash grab stop that from happening.
It’s important to note that one of Lightfoot’s primary concerns in bringing his lawsuit was his fear that “The Greatest Love,” as a huge contemporary hit, would create the mistaken assumption that his “If You Could Read My Mind” was the ripoff and not the other way around. That he showed consideration for Houston was admirable, and his reasoning illustrates that it’s not always about money.
I find myself erring on the side of allowing artists some freedom vs. driving them into increasingly limited creative boxes by endlessly copyrighting sounds, phrases and styles that came before them. Without that freedom we don’t have songs like Garbage’s “Vow,” with its “I nearly died” refrain in a nod to the Beatles’ “No Reply.” Or Panda Bear & Sonic Boom’s “Edge of the Edge” as a direct descendant of the Beach Boys’ musical lineage. By the same token, it wouldn’t hurt if those artists kick some acknowledgement — and perhaps some cash — where it’s deserving. As Lightfoot’s case demonstrates, reasonable people can work things out, and happy endings are possible.
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