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IMDb v DMDb: One Letter’s Difference Not Enough

Zumedia Inc’s attempt to register DMDb as a trade mark in Australia fell flat—thanks to its awkward proximity to a far more famous acronym: IMDb.

Zumedia, a Canadian company behind a digital media platform called “Digital Media Database,” applied to extend its international trade mark registration for DMDb into Australia. But IMDb, the internet’s go-to entertainment database, wasn’t about to let that slide. Backed by nearly 30 years of global use and widespread recognition in Australia, IMDb opposed the extension under section 60 of the Trade Marks Act 1995.

IP Australia sided with IMDb. Despite the difference in the first letter, Delegate Tracey Berger found the marks visually and aurally similar, especially given the overlapping services—both related to searchable databases of entertainment content. Australian users, she held, could easily assume DMDb was affiliated with or endorsed by IMDb.

Zumedia tried to argue that DMDb was a unique acronym and that “Db” simply stood for “database.” Ironically, that only strengthened the opposition’s case: as the Delegate pointed out, consumers often remember brands imperfectly. The shared “-MDb” element was enough to trigger a mistaken belief in a connection.

She also referenced prior cases—including AAMI and Tivo v Vivo—to reinforce the point: when a well-known mark has a strong reputation in the same field, even small differences won’t eliminate the risk of confusion.

The outcome?  Extension of protection refused. Costs awarded against Zumedia.

🎬 IP Mojo Takeaway: If your brand sits one letter away from an iconic name in the same industry, don’t count on slipping through. Trade mark law doesn’t look kindly on near-misses that come too close to the main act.

 

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Perry v Perry – Round 3 in the High Court

The long-running IP clash between Australian designer Katie Taylor (aka Katie Perry) and US popstar Katheryn Hudson (aka Katy Perry) has now reached the High Court. Both sides have filed their submissions—and the gloves are well and truly off.

Let’s unpack the arguments.

🎤 The Trade Mark at War

At the heart of the dispute is Taylor’s registered mark KATIE PERRY for clothing, registered in 2009. Hudson’s team argues that it should never have been allowed to stay on the register—because of her own fame under the name Katy Perry, and the likelihood of confusion in the public mind.

This fight has already been through:

  • The Federal Court (where Taylor won on infringement, but the respondents failed to cancel her trade mark),

  • and the Full Federal Court (which overturned the trial judge and ordered cancellation under ss 60 and 88(2)(c)).

Now, Taylor’s appeal to the High Court gives us an opportunity to see how the highest court will treat the tricky interplay between reputation, confusion, and celebrity brand extension.

⚖️ Key Appeal Issues

The submissions squarely raise three points of trade mark law importance:

  1. Reputation Must Be in a Trade Mark, Not Just a Name
    Taylor argues (citing Self Care IP) that reputation in a person isn’t enough—section 60 requires a reputation in a trade mark used to distinguish goods or services. The respondents say that “Katy Perry” was functioning as a mark in connection with music and entertainment—even if not for clothes—by the priority date.

  2. Deceptive Similarity ≠ Confusion from Reputation
    Taylor says the Full Court wrongly blurred section 60 with the s 10 concept of deceptive similarity, using “imperfect recollection” logic that belongs elsewhere. She maintains that just because the names look similar doesn’t mean there’s a s 60 ground for cancellation unless confusion arises because of the earlier mark’s reputation.

  3. Discretion Under s 89: Who’s at Fault?
    The Full Court held that Taylor’s act of applying for the mark—with knowledge of Katy Perry’s fame—was enough to defeat the saving provision in s 89. Taylor argues this turns s 89 into a dead letter. Is the act of registration itself always a fault? If so, what’s left for discretion to do?

👑 Celebrity Brands and Trade Mark Realpolitik

The respondents press the idea that by 2008, there was an established trend of pop stars launching fashion lines—and that any member of the public hearing “KATIE PERRY” on a swing tag might assume a connection with the singer. They argue:

  • Reputation in entertainment was enough to ground confusion over clothes;

  • The law shouldn’t insist on technical “use as a trade mark” when real-world fame does the work.

Taylor says: Not so fast. Reputation should attach only to actual marks used to distinguish goods. And if the singer hadn’t sold clothes in Australia before the priority date—let alone registered a mark for clothing—why should she get a monopoly over a local designer’s name?

🧵 Threads to Watch

This appeal gives the High Court a chance to clarify several issues that matter beyond this case:

  • What counts as reputation in a “trade mark”? Is global fame enough?

  • Does fame create a shadow monopoly over unrelated goods where the celebrity hasn’t yet traded?

  • When is confusion “likely”? Must it be tied to reputation for the same goods?

  • Is s 89 still alive? Or does knowledge at the time of filing always kill it?

🪙 Final Stitch

This is a rare IP battle where both sides have established, legitimate reputations—and where delay, co-existence efforts, and evolving fame all muddy the waters. Whatever the High Court decides, it’s likely to have ripple effects across celebrity branding, merchandising strategy, and the interpretation of section 60.

🧵 Stay tuned.

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Extinct Rights and Existential Threats: Copyright Claims that Shouldn’t Bite, But Still Do

In the world of entertainment, nothing stops a production faster than a copyright claim — even when the claimant doesn’t actually have a leg (or claw) to stand on.

Take, for example, a recent kerfuffle involving a dinosaur skull. Yes, a dinosaur skull. A marketing team used a stock image of a fossil for a film poster. Shortly after, they received a cease and desist from someone asserting copyright over the image — or more nebulously, over “the representation” of the skull itself. A fossilised jawbone that hasn’t had an original idea in 66 million years? Not the most obvious candidate for copyright protection.

And yet, the production company found itself in a bind. Time was short, the distributor was nervous, and the platform had already flagged the content under its automated systems. Legally, the claim didn’t stack up. Commercially, it still had teeth.

Welcome to the prehistoric jungle of copyright brinksmanship.

When Copyright Doesn’t Exist (But the Threat Still Does)

Under Australian law — and most copyright regimes — not everything is capable of being protected:

  • Natural formations (like fossils, mountains, or sea shells)? No copyright.

  • Basic factual photos taken with no creativity (e.g. museum catalogue snaps)? Likely not protected, or may already be in the public domain.

  • Ancient artefacts or artworks? Copyright has almost certainly expired — assuming it existed in the first place.

Even modern reproductions of old things don’t necessarily create new rights. The High Court in IceTV Pty Ltd v Nine Network Australia Pty Ltd [2009] HCA 14 was crystal clear: originality matters. Sweat of the brow won’t cut it.

But that doesn’t stop people — or bots — from claiming rights anyway. Particularly when money, notoriety, or mistaken beliefs are at play.

The Problem with Platform Panic

Most modern disputes don’t start in court — they start with takedown notices:

  • A DMCA claim to YouTube,

  • A flagged post on Meta or TikTok,

  • A licensing hold-up at the distributor level.

These processes are fast, opaque, and slanted toward rights holders (real or imagined). Fighting them requires time and evidence. Meanwhile, your release window slips away and your investor starts asking questions.

What Should You Do? Five Jurassic Principles

1. Know What You’re Looking At
Ask: Is the underlying subject matter capable of copyright protection? A taxidermied tiger, a Greco-Roman bust, or a piece of driftwood might not pass the threshold.

2. Trace the Chain
Even if the subject is unprotectable, the photograph or render might be. But who owns it? Was it created under licence? Is it truly original?

3. Don’t Assume the Claimant Understands Copyright Law
Many people think “I took a photo, so I own the image of the thing in the photo.” That’s not how it works. Be prepared to explain gently (or not so gently).

4. Be Ready to Push Back
If you’re legally in the clear, a well-structured rebuttal often gets the job done. Cite relevant case law, identify flaws in the claim, and invite the claimant to back down — preferably in writing.

5. But Be Prepared to Deal
Sometimes, you do a deal not because the claim is strong, but because the alternative is too costly. A nuisance settlement, a rights clarification, or a rapid poster redesign might save your release. That’s not weakness — that’s triage.

Final Thought: A Question of Extinction

When copyright claims are fossilised nonsense, you don’t need to panic — but you do need to be strategic. Entertainment projects move fast, and delays can cost more than a licence ever would. Know your rights, document your sources, and don’t be afraid to call a bluff.

But also? Don’t let a prehistoric claim derail your production. Even in the Jurassic jungle of IP, survival is about knowing when to roar and when to run.

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Paul Bender’s music has been sampled by Beyoncé and Kendrick. His band, Hiatus Kaiyote, has three Grammy nominations. His side project, The Sweet Enoughs, racks up millions of streams. So it came as a shock when fans started hearing tracks on his Spotify profile that he didn’t recognise — or approve.

Tracks that sounded like they’d been composed by an AI trapped in an elevator.

“It was probably the worst attempt at music I’ve ever heard,” Bender told Brisbane Times. “Just absolutely cooked.” His reaction soon gave way to a grim realisation: someone was uploading fake music — apparently AI-generated — directly to his artist profile. And it wasn’t just Spotify. Apple Music, Tidal, YouTube Music and Deezer all carried the same fakes.

No passwords were stolen. No logins compromised. Just a ticking time bomb in the music distribution supply chain.

The Loophole That Became a Business Model

The scam works like this: a grifter uploads garbage tracks via a digital music distributor, assigns them to a known artist name, and — voila — the platform “maps” it to the artist’s official profile. Instant legitimacy, with algorithmic discovery to match.

No ID check. No consent. No authentication.

This isn’t just a quirk of one platform’s back end. It’s systemic. And it’s being exploited on an industrial scale. One vlogger, TankTheTech, showed how anyone can assign AI music to an artist profile in under ten minutes.

And the numbers are staggering:

  • Deezer reports that 18% of its daily uploads in 2025 are AI-generated.

  • Mubert, an AI music tool, claims over 100 million tracks were made on its platform in just the first half of 2023.

  • The Music Fights Fraud Alliance estimates 10% of all global music streams are fraudulent, with some distributors seeing fraud rates as high as 50%.

That’s not fringe — it’s a revenue model. And it’s bleeding real artists.

Legal Implications: Between Passing Off and Platform Apathy

Let’s be clear: uploading fake music under someone else’s name looks a lot like impersonation, if not passing off, especially where artist reputation and income are at stake. There may also be:

  • Copyright infringement if elements of an artist’s work were used in training or replication.

  • Moral rights violations under the Copyright Act 1968 (Cth), especially the right of integrity where a fake work is falsely attributed.

  • Misleading or deceptive conduct under section 18 of the Australian Consumer Law.

Yet despite the legal exposure, platforms and distributors are playing hot potato with responsibility. Spotify calls it a “mapping issue.” Artists call it what it is: a scam that platforms are structurally enabling.

Why This Matters — Beyond Music

This isn’t just a niche concern for indie musicians. It’s a case study in what happens when:

  • AI-generated content floods creative ecosystems,

  • platforms prioritise volume over verification,

  • and IP rights become an afterthought to scale.

In short, it’s the algorithm’s world — and creatives are just living in it.

But not quietly. Artists like Bender and Michael League (of Snarky Puppy) are now speaking out and pushing for industry action. With growing numbers of testimonials and escalating complaints, the music world may be the canary in the coal mine for a broader wave of AI impersonation and platform indifference.

Until then, don’t be surprised if the next time you hit play on a favourite artist’s profile… what comes out is 100% algorithm, 0% soul.

Here’s a thought: 2FA authentication before allowing uploads? Verify before you amplify!

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Whose Work Is It Anyway? The Remix War, AI, Coffee Plungers and Swimsuits

From Elton John to anonymous meme-makers, a battle is raging over what it means to be “creative” — and whether it starts with permission.

Two stories made waves in copyright circles last week:

  • In the UK, Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney and other musical heavyweights called for stronger rules to stop AI from “scraping” their songs without a licence.

  • In India, news agency ANI drew criticism for aggressively issuing YouTube copyright claims — even for sub-10 second clips — triggering takedown threats against creators.

At first glance, these might seem worlds apart. But they highlight the same question:

At what point does using someone else’s work become exploitation, not inspiration?

And who decides?

Creators vs Reusers: Two Sides of the Copyright Culture Clash

On one side: Creators — musicians, writers, filmmakers, photographers — frustrated by tech platforms and algorithms ingesting their work without permission. Whether it’s AI training data or news footage embedded in political commentary, their message is the same:
“You’re building on our backs. Pay up.”

On the other side: Remixers, meme-makers, educators, and critics argue that strict copyright regimes chill creativity. “How can we critique culture,” they ask, “if we’re not allowed to reference it?”

This isn’t new — hip hop, collage art, satire, and even pop music are full of samples and nods. But AI has industrialised the scale of reuse. It doesn’t borrow one beat or a single shot. It eats the entire catalogue — then spits out something “new.”

So what counts as originality anymore?

Australian Lens: Seafolly, Bodum, and the Meaning of “Original”

Seafolly v Madden [2012] FCA 1346

In this high-profile swimwear spat, designer Leah Madden accused Seafolly of copying her designs. She posted comparison images on social media implying that Seafolly had engaged in plagiarism. Seafolly sued for misleading and deceptive conduct under ss 52 and 53 of the Trade Practices Act 1974 (predecessors to s18 of the Australian Consumer Law – which had by then commenced but the relevant conduct being sued for took place before it had commenced).

The Federal Court found that Madden’s claims were not only misleading but also unsubstantiated, because the design similarities were not the result of actual copying. The case reinforced that:

  • Independent creation is a valid defence, even if the resulting works are similar

  • Superficial resemblance isn’t enough — there must be a causal connection

It’s a reminder that derivation must be substantial and material, not speculative or assumed.

Bodum v DKSH [2011] FCAFC 98

This case involved Bodum’s iconic French press coffee plunger — the Chambord — and whether a rival product sold by DKSH under the “Euroline” brand misled consumers or passed off Bodum’s get-up as its own.

Bodum alleged misleading or deceptive conduct and passing off, based not on name or logo, but on the visual appearance of the product: a clear glass beaker, metal band, and distinctive handles, which had come to be strongly associated with Bodum.

At trial, the Federal Court rejected Bodum’s claims. But on appeal, the Full Federal Court reversed that decision, holding that:

  • Bodum had a substantial reputation in the get-up alone;

  • The Euroline plunger was highly similar in appearance; and

  • DKSH’s failure to adequately differentiate its product through branding or design gave rise to a misleading impression.

Both passing off and misleading/deceptive conduct (also under the old s52) were found. The Court emphasised that reputation in shape and design can be enough — and differentiation must be meaningful, not tokenistic.

The AI Angle: Who Trains Whom?

AI tools like ChatGPT, Midjourney, and Suno don’t just copy works. They learn patterns from thousands of inputs. But in doing so, they arguably absorb creative expression — chord progressions, phrasing, brushstroke styles — and then make new outputs in that same vein.

AI developers claim this is fair use or transformative. Artists argue it’s a form of invisible appropriation — no different from copying and tweaking a painting, but with zero attribution or compensation.

It’s the Seafolly and Bodum problem, scaled up: if AI’s “original” work was trained on 10,000 human ones, is it really original? Or just a remix with plausible deniability?

The Bottom Line

Copyright law is meant to balance:

  • Encouraging creativity

  • Rewarding labour

  • Allowing critique and cultural dialogue

But that balance is breaking under the weight of machine learning models and automated copyright bots. As Seafolly and Bodum show, the law still values intention, process, and context — not just resemblance.

Yet in a world of remix and AI, intention is opaque, and process is synthetic.

So where do we draw the line?

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Who Owns the Music? Taylor Swift and the Master Rights Nobody Talks About

She might be Swift, but she wasn’t quick enough to catch the Scooter back in the day.  But now all has changed …

It’s the music industry story that refuses to fade: Taylor Swift may finally have the chance to buy back her original masters — the recordings that launched her global superstardom. If the deal happens, it would close a saga that began in 2019, when her former label sold those recordings to private equity giant Shamrock Capital, following an earlier sale by Scooter Braun’s Ithaca Holdings.

For Swift fans, it’s a long-awaited victory. But for lawyers — and especially those in IP — the story is a masterclass in what most people don’t understand about music rights.

Let’s break it down.

It’s Her Song, But Not Her Recording

When people say “Taylor Swift owns her music,” they’re often talking about copyright in the song/composition itself — comprised of the lyrics, melodies and chord structure. And yes, she owns or co-owns the copyright in many of her compositions, particularly the later albums.

But that’s not the same as owning the recordings. The actual sound recordings of her early music — the studio masters — were owned by her former label, Big Machine Records. That’s standard in the music industry. Unless you’re a major independent artist or had rare contract leverage, your label usually controls the master rights from day one.

So even though the voice on those original albums is Taylor’s, and even though the songs are her words and melodies, the master recordings were never hers to begin with.

Why Master Ownership Matters

Owning the masters means controlling how the recordings are used, licensed, sold, or synced in media. If someone wants to use the originally recorded “Love Story” in a film, the master rights holder — not Taylor — says yes or no and collects the licensing fee.

It also means revenue. Master owners collect royalties from streaming, downloads, radio play, and physical sales. For a catalogue like Swift’s, we’re talking tens of millions of dollars per year.

In fairness, so does Taylor as the songwriter – but not as many as she’d collect if she owned the masters too.

When Swift lost control of her masters, she didn’t just lose licensing rights — she lost influence over how those recordings were represented commercially, something she’s made clear she cares deeply about.

The Re-Recording Strategy — and What This Offer Means

Swift’s response was bold: she began re-recording her albums (as “Taylor’s Versions”) to reclaim both control and commercial value. Because copyright law allows the same songwriter to create a new recording of their own work, she’s been able to rebuild her catalogue under her own terms.

But this new offer — to buy back the original recordings — is different. It’s about reconciling emotional legacy and legal control. For Swift, it could mean regaining ownership of the original audio associated with her rise to fame … and far more royalties.  For Shamrock Capital, it could mean cashing out at a high watermark while retaining goodwill.

The Legal Lesson

Here’s the IP truth every artist — and every lawyer advising creators — should remember:

  • Songs and recordings are separate IP assets with separate ownership structures.

  • A performer can own either, neither, or both.

  • Contract terms set at the start of a career can shape or strangle an artist’s control for decades.

For artists, the Swift story is a cautionary tale — but also a blueprint. For lawyers, it’s a reminder to explain the difference between composition rights, performance rights, and master rights clearly — preferably before the artist becomes a household name.

And for Swifties? It’s one more reason to stream the hell out of 1989 (Taylor’s Version).