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UMG Tells Appeals Court Salt-N-Pepa’s Bid for Their Masters Has a “Foundational Deficiency”
UMG told the Second Circuit on May 5 that Salt-N-Pepa’s attempt to reclaim their 1986-era masters has a "foundational deficiency," arguing the duo didn’t sign the original deal and therefore can’t use the Copyright Act’s termination right to recover those recordings.
There is something quietly combustible about watching a pair of 1980s hitmakers fight in federal court over a catalog that still slides perfectly into a party set. Salt-N-Pepa’s songs — the push-it era hooks, the choreography, the late-night singalongs — feel timeless. The legal fight over who actually owns those recordings, however, is messy and technical and not at all nostalgic.
Universal Music Group filed a new brief with the Second Circuit on May 5 asking appellate judges to toss out Cheryl “Salt” James and Sandra “Pepa” Denton’s attempt to reclaim their late 1980s and early 1990s masters under the Copyright Act’s termination right. The filing is blunt: UMG accuses the duo of overlooking a core problem in their case and says the lower court correctly concluded their claim falls outside what Congress allowed.
The dispute goes back to a January decision by a New York federal judge, who threw out the lawsuit after finding the 1986 recording agreement was not actually signed by Salt-N-Pepa. Instead, the contract sat between Next Plateau Records and the duo’s producer, Hurby “Luv Bug” Azor — a fact that, for the district court, put the termination claim on shaky legal ground.
Salt-N-Pepa took that ruling up on appeal with public backing from Irving Azoff’s Music Artists Coalition, arguing that termination rights were meant to give creators a second chance to reclaim value they couldn’t negotiate for early in their careers. That argument resonates for fans who imagine artists finally controlling remasters, deluxe reissues, or licensing decisions for documentaries and biopics. Artists and their advocates see this as a corrective tool, especially for Black and female performers who frequently signed away rights in lopsided early deals.
UMG’s brief pushes back by steering the conversation away from moral intent and toward statutory limits. “While plaintiffs and their amici emphasize the congressional policy to give authors a second chance to capture the value of their creative works through a termination right, they ignore the extent to which the entire termination provision is itself a carefully balanced scheme that also places important limitations on when and how the right may be exercised,” the company’s lawyers write. In short: intent doesn’t erase the rule that you can’t terminate a transfer you didn’t make.
The label emphasizes what the district court described as a modest but necessary requirement: a grant of copyright has to be made by the actual owner of the rights. UMG frames the Salt-N-Pepa case as a straightforward application of that rule, not a novel narrowing of artists’ relief. “Plaintiffs also criticize the district court for purportedly creating a new standard,” the brief continues, arguing the opinion merely enforces the obvious legal baseline.
There is still a procedural road ahead. Salt-N-Pepa will get to respond in writing, then the Second Circuit will schedule oral arguments. If the appeals panel revives the suit, this could reopen questions not just about ownership but about how legacy acts navigate catalogs that have become lucrative assets for streaming, licensing, and nostalgia-driven reissues.
The case is also part of a larger industry scramble over the scope of termination rights. Last month UMG, Warner, Sony and BMG jointly purchased a disputed copyright to push a challenge toward the U.S. Supreme Court, arguing a recent lower-court expansion of termination protections has unsettled global dealmaking. That move suggests the majors are willing to spend significant political and legal capital to constrain how and where artists can claw back rights.
For fans who watched Salt-N-Pepa perform at big awards stages as recently as March 2026, the litigation reads like a different kind of performance: legal briefs and filings instead of stage lights, strategy instead of choreography. The outcome matters beyond royalties; it will shape who gets to decide when those definitive remasters happen, what catalogs show up in movies and ads, and which artists can reclaim the economic life of work they created decades ago.
In the meantime, the songs keep playing. The court schedule moves slower than a tour cycle, and both sides seem prepared to make their case. Expect more filings, and, eventually, another round in front of judges who will have to balance statutory text against the cultural realities that make these records so valuable to so many people.
