Back in the mid-’90s and early 2000s, four labels stood at the center of hip-hop’s commercial explosion: Bad Boy, Roc-A-Fella, Murder Inc., and Ruff Ryders. They weren’t quite major labels themselves, but as subsidiaries of giants like Universal and Sony, they had major-label money and major-label power—and they used it.
Gongu Roach, a respected music publishing forensics expert with decades in the business, recently broke down what it actually meant to be signed to one of these powerhouses. His insights come not from hearsay, but from firsthand experience—working directly with artists from these camps and reviewing contracts that are rarely spoken about publicly.
Take Ruff Ryders, for example. If you were an artist or producer on their roster, your deal likely gave them 25% of your publishing—meaning they owned a
quarter of your songwriting revenue. Contracts were often cross-collateralized too. That means if your second album didn’t do well, they could recoup the loss using the profits from your first one. In other words, even when you won, they still got paid first.
Murder Inc. operated with similar publishing splits, although Roach admits he wasn’t sure if those deals included cross-collateralization clauses. But the structure was largely the same—75% to the creator, 25% to the label.
Roc-A-Fella, on the other hand, stood out. “They didn’t ask for no publishing,” Roach explains. Artists and producers alike kept their rights, which is why you rarely hear grumbling about bad deals coming out of that camp. Loud Records had a similar reputation in that regard—though some artists did express frustration with low royalty point allocations.
Bad Boy Records is where the story shifts. Roach confirms that publishing was routinely taken from both artists and producers—unless you came into the situation with significant leverage. Shyne, for instance, retained his publishing, as did French Montana during his 2010 bidding war. Still, Roach points to a clause in at least one Bad Boy contract that allowed the label to take out life insurance policies on artists—naming the company as the sole beneficiary.
That clause alone reveals just how one-sided some of these contracts were. “You don’t get the benefits of that policy,” Roach notes. “They do.”
It wasn’t just these mini-majors, either. Going back to the ’80s, labels like Profile Records and B-Boy Records often structured deals so artists received a royalty cut but no publishing rights whatsoever. You might’ve seen 50% on paper—but that was 50% of a royalty rate, not ownership.
Fast-forward 35 years, and some of these same artists are now trying to reclaim what they lost. Under U.S. copyright law, they have the right to terminate publishing agreements after 35 years—but not ownership of master recordings. And if you miss the 35-year window? You’ve got one more shot at 56—but by then, renegotiating your royalty split on the master side is off the table.
Roach puts it plainly: “You might not have known what you were signing at 19 or 20—but when you hit 40 and you’re signing artists yourself, it all starts to click.”
The lesson is clear. Understand your contracts. Know the value of your publishing. And if you’re unsure, call someone who does.
