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Ships Fly Up and the Singer from America

 

One day I received an unusual email. It was in English, from an American pop artist I didn’t know. In the message, he explained that he had recorded a song and shot a music video based on one of my instrumental compositions — because it had really touched him.

 

At the time, that composition was available on a popular audio stock platform (a marketplace where you can buy a one‑time usage license for a track — for example, to use it as an intro or background in a YouTube video — while all rights remain with the original composer). As I understood it, the artist had purchased a single license, recorded his vocals over my track, and even shot a music video. Naturally, this was a violation on his part: such compositions are not allowed to be used as a “backing track” for someone else’s song — and certainly not to be released later on platforms like Apple Music.

 

I listened to the song and watched the video, which he had already uploaded to YouTube, and I was impressed by how well he’d sung and how harmoniously it all blended with the music. He had also included the track in his new album. He wasn’t a chart‑topping artist in the US, but he had a great voice and a decent following.

 

On the one hand, he shouldn’t have done this without my consent — which I pointed out to him, explaining it was a violation. He replied something along the lines of: “I didn’t know it was forbidden — I misunderstood the terms of the license I purchased,” and apologised. On the other hand, the song with his vocals was so captivating and memorable — it felt as if the music and the voice were made for each other, or at least that’s how it seemed to me at the time.

 

It was a real dilemma. I saw two paths: I could have embraced this twist of fate, gifted the track to the artist, and believed I’d fulfilled my purpose — creating a piece that might become a hit in the future — but then always feel that I’d given away the fruit of my labour to a stranger who’d used it without asking, simply presenting me with a fait accompli, albeit in a very polite and considerate way.

 

Or the second path: I could insist the track be removed from all platforms, along with the music video — but then perhaps regret not having given the world something truly meaningful.

 

I thought about it for a long time, and believe me, this issue weighed heavily on my soul. Eventually, a third option came to mind — also not entirely pleasant, though financially beneficial, and something inside me resisted it, but my reason saw it as a kind of solution, especially given my financial situation.

 

There’s a practice where composers don’t just sell a license for their track, but transfer all rights entirely — as if they’d never composed it in the first place. You simply hand it over, receive a fee, and forget about it forever, and the buyer can do whatever they want with the music. That’s essentially what the artist had done with my track — except I hadn’t received any real fee, just a few dollars for the wrong type of license.

 

My heart was heavy — I didn’t want to part with my creation, which I loved dearly. I felt a deep, personal connection to it. But I did what I did: I came up with a reasonable sum and presented it to the singer. If the deal went through, I would have to forget I’d ever been the author of that music.

 

However, as it turned out, fate had its own plans for this composition — and it seemed to have its own path, one I wasn’t meant to alter. The singer declined. And after that, strangely enough, I felt incredibly light. I didn’t get any money, but it was as if a weight had lifted from my soul. And I understood everything. It all became crystal clear.

 

I told him he must immediately remove the song from all platforms and music stores, and the music video must be taken down from YouTube as well — since all these actions violated my copyright. He had no defence: in any dispute, I’d have no trouble proving I was the author, as I had all the original audio tracks and project files in my archives — which he didn’t. He removed the song and video, asking only to be allowed to distribute the 50 physical CD copies he’d already printed. I agreed. He sent one of the CDs to me by mail, straight from Texas.

 

That CD and his letter still sit in my desk drawer to this day — a kind of reminder that one must follow the Path of the Heart. Because some time later, the Ships Fly Up project was born, marking a whole new chapter in my life. That track, with some revisions, became the title piece of the first album — and later, an animated music video was created for it. The composition is called Journey to Ranucan, and if I’d parted with it back then, things might have turned out differently — I might not have gained the very impulse I needed to create SFU, along with the track The Way of the Heart.

 

Following your heart isn’t always easy when reason drowns it out with its “advice” and “recommendations,” warnings and fears — but a path with heart is still the one that feels right to me.