Correct. It was a misunderstanding. From what I remember someone from Al’s label said he had the go ahead from Coolio to do the parody. Only after it was released did Coolio make public statements about it, and Al tried to apologize but I don’t think Coolio was having it.
I don’t know how copyright law applies to satire but in my head, a parody of a song uses enough of the original material that you’d still need permission.
As someone who was a professional musician for several decades, from my experience, anyone seeking to record and release a cover of someone else’s song needs to specifically seek permission in writing from the artist, either through their label or legal rep. If they’re seeking to monetize that cover then contracts and/or agreements need to be signed. Just dropping a cover without going through those steps invites serious legal trouble.
Artists and labels retain the right to deny permission to anyone seeking to do a cover of any song still protected under copyright law. I recall a specific incident years ago between Weird Al and Coolio about this. (Although Weird Al does parodies and not straight covers, same laws apply.)
Edit: Amending my comment to add that as I’m talking to folks here, I’m getting a better understanding of how copyright law works with covers vs. parodies, and my original comment above isn’t accurate.
I certainly am.
Now now, we don’t body shame.
I draw inspiration from my boss, who is way more resourceful than he gives himself credit for. If our project manager comes out and says we need to figure out how to degoombulate a whatsit, he will (after ten minutes of bitching) go into his junk drawer of rods, shims, and c clamps, and fashion together the best damn whatsit degoombulator you ever saw.
If the tool 1) accomplishes the task and 2) doesn’t fuck up what you’re using it on, it’s the right tool.
This is basically the entire premise for Adventure Time.
Just pour it over the engine. Make sure you give it a good thorough coat. It’ll work its way in.
Except after we fart the instinks officially become outstinks. And I’m not following my outstinks.
Imagine, if you will, this bitter, hateful collection of skin folds wedged into her motorized chair, wheezing, tossing the oxygen hose back over her shoulder while her fat little unmanicured thumbs angrily throw themselves at the mucous-stained phone screen…over and over and over…like little raging marinara-covered kamikaze pilots, with little to no regard for spelling, grammar, or hygiene. The phone makes its best effort to autocorrect the jumbled barrage of entitlement being ejaculated into it, but in reality, it just wants to die - just like her husband.
I would hope the 911 dispatcher either hung up on her or ripped into her for trying to waste emergency resources on petty bullshit. Isn’t that a charge?
Well that’s bullshit.
Wait, what are Peak Horny Hours???
Somewhere in a rural county in South Carolina, a man was sitting in his trailer, saw this, grabbed his rifle, locked and loaded, and got into his Armageddon bunker, where he’s now drinking a Coors Lite and testing out his radio equipment.
Noel Gallagher himself will show up and pee on your guitar.