Music Business Worldwide
May 5, 2021
Primary Wave Music has acquired again. MBW can reveal today (May 5) that the company has bought the publishing catalog of songwriters and producers Carl Sturken and Evan Rogers, who discovered superstar Rihanna.
In what Primary Wave describes as a “multi million dollar deal”, the acquisition will also see the publisher obtain a share in the duo’s master royalty income stream across Rihanna’s first seven albums.
The deal encompasses master income for some of Rihanna’s biggest hits including
We Found Love, Umbrella, Don’t Stop the Music, Disturbia, Stay, Rude Boy, and What’s My Name.
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THE PURPOSE OF THE TRIP was to see my mother’s father one last time, but on the way in we stopped for a day in Mumbai to stretch our legs. I’d drawn a whole map for myself on the plane and now was following my dotted line through various markets and bakeries, culminating in a visit to the CSMVS, the city’s largest art museum. As with many other of India’s cultural institutions, the price for admission varies for local visitors and international tourists, and as I thumbed through my wallet in the queue, I realized that I’d overspent at the underground zine fest and only had enough cash left to cover the local rate. I don’t speak Hindi, but I thought, if I kept my mouth shut, I might look the part I had no American flags on my shirt, anyway but when I got to the front and wordlessly held out my several dozen rupees, the guard saw right through me and pointed to the tourist rate on the sign. Too embarrassed to explain myself or double down on t
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IF I CAN BE CALLED A BIRD-WATCHER, my spark was a pair of burrowing owls, painted on the narrow storefront gate of a shuttered real estate business on 145th Street in Harlem that brokers single-room occupancy housing for two hundred dollars a week. I spotted them after ice-skating with one of my kids at the rink in the shadow of towering smokestacks at Riverbank State Park. The park is a concession to the community for the massive wastewater sewage plant hidden beneath it. It was midway through the Trump years: January, but not cold like Januaries when I was little, not cold enough to see your breath. It wasn’t snowing, and it wasn’t going to snow. The owls watched me quizzically with their heads cocked, their long skinny legs perched on the colored bands of a psychedelic rainbow that seemed to lead off that gray street into another, more magical realm.