Spotify Stream Share Threshold

Spotify’s insistence that it’s “misleading” to compare services based on a derived per-stream rate reveals exactly how out of touch the company has become with the very artists whose labor fuels its stock price. Artists experience streaming one play at a time, not as an abstract revenue pool or a complex pro-rata formula. Each stream represents a listener’s decision, a moment of engagement, and a microtransaction of trust. Dismissing the per-stream metric as irrelevant is a rhetorical dodge that shields Spotify from accountability for its own value proposition. (The same applies to all streamers, but Spotify is the only one that denies the reality of the per-stream rate.)

Spotify further claims that users don’t pay per stream but for access as if that negates the artist’s per stream rate payments. It is fallacious to claim that because Spotify users pay a subscription fee for “access,” there is no connection between that payment and any one artist they stream. This argument treats music like a public utility rather than a marketplace of individual works. In reality, users subscribe because of the artists and songs they want to hear; the value of “access” is wholly derived from those choices and the fans that artists drive to the platform. Each stream represents a conscious act of consumption and engagement that justifies compensation.

Economically, the subscription fee is not paid into a vacuum — it forms a revenue pool that Spotify divides among rights holders according to streams. Thus, the distribution of user payments is directly tied to which artists are streamed, even if the payment mechanism is indirect. To say otherwise erases the causal relationship between fan behavior and artist earnings.

The “access” framing serves only to obscure accountability. It allows Spotify to argue that artists are incidental to its product when, in truth, they are the product. Without individual songs, there is nothing to access. The subscription model may bundle listening into a single fee, but it does not sever the fundamental link between listener choice and the artist’s right to be paid fairly for that choice.

Less Than Zero Effect: AI, Infinite Supply and Erasing Artist

In fact, this “access” argument may undermine Spotify’s point entirely. If subscribers pay for access, not individual plays, then there’s an even greater obligation to ensure that subscription revenue is distributed fairly across the artists who generate the listening engagement that keeps fans paying each month. The opacity of this system—where listeners have no idea how their money is allocated—protects Spotify, not artists. If fans understood how little of their monthly fee reached the musicians they actually listen to, they might demand a user-centric payout model or direct licensing alternatives. Or they might be more inclined to use a site like Bandcamp. And Spotify really doesn’t want that.

And to anticipate Spotify’s typical deflection—that low payments are the label’s fault—that’s not correct either. Spotify sets the revenue pool, defines the accounting model, and negotiates the rates. Labels may divide the scraps, but it’s Spotify that decides how small the pie is in the first place either through its distribution deals or exercising pricing power.

Three Proofs of Intention

Daniel Ek, the Spotify CEO and arms dealer, made a Dickensian statement that tells you everything you need to know about how Spotify perceives their role as the Streaming Scrooge—“Today, with the cost of creating content being close to zero, people can share an incredible amount of content”.

That statement perfectly illustrates how detached he has become from the lived reality of the people who actually make the music that powers his platform’s market capitalization (which allows him to invest in autonomous weapons). First, music is not generic “content.” It is art, labor, and identity. Reducing it to “content” flattens the creative act into background noise for an algorithmic feed. That’s not rhetoric; it’s a statement of his values. Of course in his defense, “near zero cost” to a billionaire like Ek is not the same as “near zero cost” to any artist. This disharmonious statement shows that Daniel Ek mistakes the harmony of the people for the noise of the marketplace—arming algorithms instead of artists.

Second, the notion that the cost of creating recordings is “close to zero” is absurd. Real artists pay for instruments, studios, producers, engineers, session musicians, mixing, mastering, artwork, promotion, and often the cost of simply surviving long enough to make the next record or write the next song. Even the so-called “bedroom producer” incurs real expenses—gear, software, electricity, distribution, and years of unpaid labor learning the craft. None of that is zero. As I said in the UK Parliament’s Inquiry into the Economics of Streaming, when the day comes that a soloist aspires to having their music included on a Spotify “sleep” playlist, there’s something really wrong here.

Ek’s comment reveals the Silicon Valley mindset that art is a frictionless input for data platforms, not an enterprise of human skill, sacrifice, and emotion. When the CEO of the world’s dominant streaming company trivializes the cost of creation, he’s not describing an economy—he’s erasing one.

While Spotify tries to distract from the “per-stream rate,” it conveniently ignores the reality that whatever it pays “the music industry” or “rights holders” for all the artists signed to one label still must be broken down into actual payments to the individual artists and songwriters who created the work. Labels divide their share among recording artists; publishers do the same for composers and lyricists. If Spotify refuses to engage on per-stream value, what it’s really saying is that it doesn’t want to address the people behind the music—the very creators whose livelihoods depend on those streams. In pretending the per-stream question doesn’t matter, Spotify admits the artist doesn’t matter either.

Less Than Zero or Zeroing Out: Where Do We Go from Here?

The collapse of artist revenue and the rise of AI aren’t coincidences; they’re two gears in the same machine. Streaming’s economics rewards infinite supply at near-zero unit cost which is really the nugget of truth in Daniel Ek’s statements. This is evidenced by Spotify’s dalliances with Epidemic Sound and the like. But—human-created music is finite and costly; AI music is effectively infinite and cheap. For a platform whose margins improve as payout obligations shrink, the logical endgame is obvious: keep the streams, remove the artists.

Two-sided market math. Platforms sell audience attention to advertisers and access to subscribers. Their largest variable cost is royalties. Every substitution of human tracks with synthetic “sound-alikes,” noise, functional audio, or AI mashup reduces royalty liability while keeping listening hours—and revenue—intact. You count the AI streams just long enough to reduce the royalty pool, then you remove them from the system, only to be replace by more AI tracks. Spotify’s security is just good enough to miss the AI tracks for at least one royalty accounting period.
Perpetual content glut as cover. Executives say creation costs are “near zero,” justifying lower per-stream value. That narrative licenses a race to the bottom, then invites AI to flood the catalog so the floor can fall further.
Training to replace, not to pay. Models ingest human catalogs to learn style and voice, then output “good enough” music that competes with the very works that trained them—without the messy line item called “artist compensation.”
Playlist gatekeeping. When discovery is centralized in editorial and algorithmic playlists, platforms can steer demand toward low-or-no-royalty inventory (functional audio, public-domain, in-house/commissioned AI), starving human repertoire while claiming neutrality.
Investor alignment. The story that scales is not “fair pay”; it’s “gross margin expansion.” AI is the lever that turns culture into a fixed cost and artists into externalities.

Where does that leave us? Both streaming and AI “work” best for Big Tech, financially, when the artist is cheap enough to ignore or easy enough to replace. AI doesn’t disrupt that model; it completes it. It also gives cover through a tortured misreading through the “national security” lens so natural for a Lord of War investor like Mr. Ek who will no doubt give fellow Swede and one of the great Lords of War, Alfred Nobel, a run for his money. (Perhaps Mr. Ek will reimagine the Peace Prize.) If we don’t hard-wire licensing, provenance, and payout floors, the platform’s optimal future is music without musicians.

Plato conceived justice as each part performing its proper function in harmony with the whole—a balance of reason, spirit, and appetite within the individual and of classes within the city. Applied to AI synthetic works like those generated by Sora 2, injustice arises when this order collapses: when technology imitates creation without acknowledging the creators whose intellect and labor made it possible. Such systems allow the “appetitive” side—profit and scale—to dominate reason and virtue. In Plato’s terms, an AI trained on human art yet denying its debt to artists enacts the very disorder that defines injustice.

[This post first appeared on ArtistRights Watch]

November 12, 2025 by Trichordist Editor

by Chris Castle

Spotify recently rolled out a quiet but seismic change to its royalty system: if a track doesn’t get at least 1,000 streams in a 12-month period, it earns no royalties. Zero. The company claims this policy is about reducing “fraud” and redirecting money to “working artists,” but behind that PR gloss is a shift that disproportionately harms independent musicians and smaller rightsholders.

Let’s be clear—this isn’t just about removing noise from the system. It’s about redrawing the map of who gets paid in the streaming economy and who gets pushed out.

The Hidden Impact on Artists

At first glance, 1,000 streams might sound like a modest hurdle. But in the aggregate, this threshold excludes potentially millions of tracks from ever receiving a dime—even though Spotify continues to profit from their presence through ad revenue and user engagement. It’s easy to assume the affected tracks belong only to DIY artists or obscure creators. But that’s not necessarily true.

Spotify’s royalty model is track-focused, not artist-focused. You could have a single that racks up a million streams while the rest of the album struggles to clear a few hundred. Those lower-performing tracks—despite being part of a cohesive release—won’t earn a cent. Left to its own devices, the platform favors individual track performance over albums or an artist’s entire catalog. And that has sweeping implications not only for how artists are paid, but for how music is created, released, and valued in the streaming age.

It’s Not About Growing the Pie—It’s About Cutting Out the Bottom

The most revealing part of this policy isn’t what it claims to fix, but what it quietly avoids. Spotify is likely under enormous pressure—from major labels and rights holders—to raise the artist payouts. No matter how much Spotify denies the per-stream rate, there will always be a per-stream rate even if they pay a “stream share” to a label for the very simple reason that the label has to convert that revenue share into a per stream rate in order to allocate it to their several artists. That’s as simple as gross vs. net.

Plus we know just how bad the gross is from indie artists who get paid 100% of the “stream share”. It’s shit, ok? That’s why we know Spotify are under pressure to increase royalties.

But arbitrarily raising the total royalty pool would have consequences: it could trigger most-favored-nation clauses, obligate Spotify to pay more across the board.

Another way to raise royalties would be to “flatten” some of the minimum guarantee, i.e., make a portion of it nonrecoupable from future royalty payments. This was the practice with record clubs—a nonrecoupable payment has the added benefit of not being shared with artists as a kind of catalog-wide payment. This would also likely trigger MFNs, so that’s not super appealing either.

So by excluding low-performing tracks from the royalty pool, Spotify isn’t reducing fraud or increasing fairness. It’s reallocating revenue. And not randomly—it’s redistributing it upward. The money those artists would have earned is now being handed to the top-performing tracks, which overwhelmingly belong to major labels and large catalog owners.

Don’t you think that if the goal was to reduce costs, Spotify would just shrink the pie and pocket the difference? It seems to me that more money to fewer people is likely the real purpose of the 1,000-stream rule.

The Threat of Industry-Wide Collusion

Spotify isn’t alone. Amazon Music and Deezer have introduced similar thresholds, raising serious concerns about whether this is a coordinated move by dominant platforms to marginalize smaller rightsholders. When multiple major services adopt the same gatekeeping metric at the same time, and benefit in the same way, it’s not unreasonable to ask whether they’re acting in lockstep. In fact, this concept in antitrust law is called tacit collusion (or “conscious parallelism”) which occurs when competitors coordinate their behavior—such as pricing or output—without explicit agreements or communication. Instead of entering into a formal cartel, companies mirror each other’s pricing or business strategies, knowing that mutual restraint benefits all of them

Even if there’s no smoking gun, the outcome is clear: fewer royalties paid to emerging and independent creators, and more concentrated control over who makes money from streaming.

Playlists, Penalties, and Platform Power

Here’s the twist: just because a track falls below 1,000 streams and no longer qualifies for royalties doesn’t mean Spotify stops using it. These sub-threshold tracks don’t vanish—they become part of what we might call Spotify’s “shadow catalog”: music that still populates playlists, fuels the recommendation algorithm, and keeps users listening, but doesn’t generate payouts.

Every time a user plays a low-performing track, Spotify collects engagement data. That information feeds into its personalization systems, sharpening the algorithm’s ability to retain users and increase time-on-platform. That extra engagement helps Spotify serve more ads, train better models, and keep listener churn down. It also enriches Spotify’s advertising and data ecosystem, especially on the free tier where listening time directly translates to ad revenue.

In other words, these unpaid tracks are still part of the machine. Spotify uses them to optimize engagement and advertising—but without paying the creators a cent. It’s profit without payout. Value extraction without compensation. And in the long tail of the music economy, that adds up to millions of tracks silently pulling their weight for free.

So it seems that this is the quid for the pro quo.

A Cautionary Tale for Songwriters

The 1,000-stream threshold is a cautionary tale for songwriters as they approach Phonorecords V. What began as a “fraud prevention” tool is now a benchmark for excluding smaller rights holders from royalties altogether. Streaming services will point to these thresholds as precedent—arguing that if labels can accept payout limits, publishers should too. Without strong opposition, platforms could push for mechanical royalty thresholds that mirror streamshare rules, cutting off compensation to low-earning songs. This isn’t just about recorded music anymore. It’s a warning: once a gate is built, it can be copied—and used to lock out songwriters next.

A Royalty System That Punishes the Wrong People

Spotify’s royalty threshold is spun as a way to fight fraud and reward “working artists,” you know, kind of like don’t be evil. But in reality, it codifies a system where only the most popular tracks get paid—regardless of how much they contribute to the overall value of the platform.

And when other streaming services follow the same path, it stops looking like business as usual and starts to resemble a coordinated effort to narrow the market and marginalize everyone but the top-tier players.

This isn’t a royalty system built on fairness or transparency. It’s a redistribution scheme—not to help more artists earn a living, but to serve bigger slices to fewer people.

And that should raise alarms far beyond the music industry. Looking at you, Gail Slater.

August 7, 2025 by thetrichordist