Masters ownership is one of the most consequential decisions an artiste can make, because it determines who controls a recording and who profits from its long-term value.
By Deborah Oyedijo
In Nigerian music conversations, few phrases carry as much authority as “owning your masters”. It appears in interviews, resurfaces during label disputes, and is often presented as the ultimate symbol of artistic independence. Yet, for a term that is so frequently repeated, it remains widely misunderstood. Many emerging artistes know it is important, but struggle to explain what masters are, why labels insist on controlling them, or what is actually surrendered when they are signed away.
That gap in understanding is no longer harmless. Nigerian music is now traded globally, and catalogues are becoming increasingly valuable beyond streaming charts. Recordings are licensed to films and TV series, used in advertising campaigns, acquired by investors, and monetised in ways that extend far beyond their initial release window. In that kind of market, master ownership is not a slogan. It is a legal and commercial position that determines who controls a recording and who benefits most from its long-term value.
At its most basic level, a master is the original sound recording of a song. It is the final recorded version that exists as a complete audio product. The file delivered to streaming platforms, played on the radio, uploaded to YouTube, and distributed worldwide is the master recording. It is not the lyrics on paper or the melody in abstract form. It is the finished sound recording that the public consumes.
Ownership of that recording often depends on a simple but critical factor: who paid for it. Where a label funds studio time, pays producers and engineers, finances marketing, and supports distribution, it would usually demand ownership or control of the master recording in return.
Where an artiste independently funds the recording process, ownership more naturally rests with them. This is why master ownership is rarely about ego. It is tied to financing, leverage, and the structure of the contract that governs the release.
The confusion deepens when masters are conflated with publishing. Every commercially released song typically contains two core rights. The first is the sound recording, which is the master. The second is the composition, which covers the melody and lyrics. Master rights relate to the recording. Publishing rights relate to the songwriting. An artiste may own the master recording but not control the publishing, especially where multiple writers or a publishing company are involved. The reverse can also occur. A songwriter may retain publishing rights while having no ownership stake in the master.
This distinction becomes important when revenue is involved. Streaming income, sync licensing fees, and other forms of exploitation are often split between master rights and publishing rights. When discussions about ownership lack this clarity, artists may assume they control more than they actually do.
Once the master recording is understood as a commercial asset, its value becomes clearer. Master recordings generate revenue across streaming platforms such as Spotify, Apple Music, Boomplay, Audiomack, and YouTube Music. They generate income from digital downloads, where they still exist. They may be monetised through YouTube advertising systems and content identification claims. They are licensed for use in films, TV series, documentaries, trailers, advertisements, and video games. They may be sampled by other artists, which requires permission from whoever owns the recording. Increasingly, they are also sold as part of catalogue acquisitions, where investors purchase recording rights based on projected long-term earnings.
This long-term earning capacity is what makes master ownership so consequential. The loss is not only immediate income. It is future leverage.
Nigerian music has already provided visible examples of what this loss can look like. When Kizz Daniel left his former label, he was reportedly unable to freely perform or monetise songs from his New Era album because ownership of those recordings did not sit with him. Regaining access to that catalogue required time, legal effort, and negotiation. The situation demonstrated a simple truth: without ownership or control of masters, even an artist closely associated with the music may not have full authority over how it is used.
Globally, Taylor Swift’s situation exposed the same issue on a much larger scale. When her original master recordings were sold to Scooter Braun without her consent, she chose a different path. Rather than accept the loss of control, she re-recorded her albums so she could own the new versions.
The process was expensive and time-consuming, but it allowed her to regain commercial control over the recordings moving forward. While the scale of her career differs from that of most Nigerian artists, the principle remains the same: master ownership determines who controls the commercial life of a recording.
Even within Nigeria, the importance of catalogue control has been evident in quieter ways. When Wizkid exited E.M.E. in the early 2010s, discussions around ownership and control followed closely behind. Although the full details of contractual arrangements were not publicly disclosed, the episode contributed to a broader industry awareness about how recording agreements shape long-term rights. It marked a period where Nigerian artistes increasingly began paying attention to ownership structures rather than focusing solely on advances or visibility.
These examples underline a consistent pattern. When masters are not owned by the artist, control sits elsewhere.
In traditional recording agreements, labels often retain ownership of master recordings in exchange for advances, marketing budgets, and career development support. From a business standpoint, this arrangement is logical. Labels invest capital and infrastructure. Ownership of masters provides a mechanism to recoup those investments and generate long-term profit.
However, the financial implications for artists can be significant. Where a label owns the masters, it typically receives the majority of master royalties. Artistes earn a contractual royalty percentage, often after recoupment. Recoupment allows the label to recover advances, recording costs, and promotional spending before the artist begins to receive net income. As a result, a commercially successful song may not immediately translate into substantial earnings for the artiste.
Consider a simplified example. If a song generates ₦10 million in streaming revenue and the artiste owns the master outright, minus distribution fees, the majority of that revenue flows directly to the artiste. Under a traditional label structure where the label retains 80 percent of master revenue, ₦8 million may go to the label, leaving ₦2 million for the artist, often subject to recoupment. The difference over time can be substantial, especially across multiple releases.
This does not mean that signing away masters is always irrational. For emerging artistes without capital or infrastructure, a label’s investment may provide professional recording budgets, marketing support, international access, and industry networks that would otherwise be inaccessible. In such cases, transferring master ownership may be seen as an exchange for accelerated growth.
The critical issue is whether the exchange is fair and whether safeguards exist. Some agreements provide reversion clauses, allowing master rights to return to the artist after a fixed term. Others structure the relationship as a licence rather than a permanent assignment.
Under Nigeria’s Copyright Act 2022, sound recordings are protected works, and the copyright owner holds exclusive rights over reproduction, distribution, and commercial exploitation. Those rights can be assigned permanently or licensed for a defined period. The legal wording matters. An assignment in perpetuity is not the same as a time-bound licence.
For artistes entering agreements today, especially within Nigeria’s rapidly expanding industry, understanding this distinction is essential. Masters are intellectual property assets. They may outlast trends, viral moments, and even active careers. Songs continue earning quietly long after their release cycle has ended. They are streamed by new audiences, licensed for new projects, and folded into catalogue acquisitions years later.
The stories of Kizz Daniel and Taylor Swift, though different in scale, demonstrate the same underlying principle. When control of masters sits elsewhere, reclaiming it can require significant legal and financial effort. When ownership is retained, long-term leverage remains intact.
Ultimately, what is lost when masters are signed away is not merely revenue. It is control over how a recording lives in the world. It is the authority to decide where it is licensed, how it is monetised, and who benefits from its ongoing commercial life. In an industry where recorded music is increasingly treated as an investment asset, that authority carries weight far beyond the moment of signing.
Fame may fade, markets may shift, and public attention might be fleeting. Master recordings, however, remain commercially exploitable for decades. The decision to transfer ownership, therefore, is rarely temporary. It is often generational.
And that is why the question of master ownership deserves more than a slogan and demands understanding.
Deborah Oyedijo is a music business writer and entertainment lawyer-in-training with a focus on the African music industry. When she is not writing about music rights and culture, she is watching K-Drama, or absorbing yet another documentary. Connect with her on IG and X: ayooyedijo