Article: In the early 1980s, they were the two biggest stars on the planet, a “former Beatle and the new Peter Pan of Pop.” Their chart-topping duets, “Say Say Say” and “The Girl Is Mine,” were playful, breezy snapshots of a genuine and deep friendship. When Michael Jackson came to London to record, he stayed at the home of Paul McCartney and his wife, Linda, becoming a friend of the family. They were mentor and protégé, creative equals, and genuine friends.

Three years later, they would be locked in a real-life battle, not over a girl, but over a legacy. Music brought them together, but the business of music—specifically, the $47.5 million purchase of The Beatles’ song catalog—would tear them apart in one of the most famous and bitter feuds in pop history. Jackson, once the protégé, had become his mentor’s publisher, the architect of McCartney’s own musical legacy.

The story of this epic fallout begins, ironically, with an act of friendship. During Jackson’s stay at his sprawling English estate, McCartney, a savvy businessman since The Beatles’ breakup, decided to share his biggest secret to wealth: music publishing. One night, he showed an eager Jackson a thick, bound notebook filled with the song titles he had acquired, including the entire Buddy Holly catalog and standards like “Autumn Leaves.” Jackson, never one to hide his emotions, was “excited as he turned the pages.”

For McCartney, this lesson was learned “the hard way.” He explained to Michael how he and John Lennon had lost control of their own copyrights back in 1969. To avoid Britain’s staggering 90% tax rate, they were advised to take their publishing company, Northern Songs, public. Soon after, their publisher, Dick James, sold his shares to Associated Television (ATV) without their consent, and the Fab Four lost control of their own creations.

It was a painful lesson, but one that cemented a new rule for songwriters: never sell your publishing.

This conversation lit a fire in Jackson. Fresh off the Off the Wall breakthrough, he met with his attorney, John Branca, and declared, “I want to buy some copyrights like Paul.”

What happened next is a story of timing, ambition, and unimaginable wealth. Jackson’s next album, Thriller, became the best-selling album of all time, making him arguably the most famous human on Earth and boosting his personal wealth to over $50 million by 1985. With “checks piling in,” Jackson instructed Branca to find large-scale investments.

In September 1984, Branca brought him the ultimate prize: the infamous ATV catalog, the very one that held the rights to nearly all of The Beatles’ hits, was for sale. Upon hearing the news, Jackson’s reaction was explosive. He “did a full turn, jumped in the air, and shrieked, ‘I want it! Please!’”

But what about Paul? Surely, he would be the top bidder for his own life’s work. According to negotiations, McCartney had made offers over the years, but he was “not a serious bidder.” The sticking point was that he only wanted his songs, not the thousands of other copyrights bundled in the catalog. In a move that would prove fatal, McCartney’s team told ATV to go out, get their best offer, and they would pay “10 percent more.”

This strategy backfired spectacularly. When Michael Jackson, Paul’s friend, showed up to bid, ATV suspected he was a “stalking horse” for McCartney, a way for Paul to avoid paying the 10% premium. “It took a long time,” sources said, “to convince ATV that Michael was in fact acting on his own.”

He was. In 1985, the deal was finalized. Michael Jackson, for $47.5 million, now owned the publishing rights to “Hey Jude,” “Yesterday,” “Let It Be,” and hundreds of other songs McCartney had written.

The news was a gut punch to McCartney. “Someone rang me up and said, ‘Michael’s bought your songs,’” he recalled. “I think it’s dodgy to do things like that. To be someone’s friend and then buy the rug they’re standing on.”

The friendship was, in an instant, over. “Michael tried to phone McCartney and discuss the matter,” a report from the time states, “but every time he did, Paul hung up on him.” Jackson’s patience quickly ran out. “Finally, Michael ultimately said, ‘Paul’s got a real problem, and I’m finished trying to be a nice guy. Too bad for him. I get the songs and that’s the end of it.’”

While McCartney and the Lennon estate still collected their 50% share of songwriting royalties, Jackson now held the power McCartney had so desperately missed: the right to control how the music was used. And Jackson, now running a business, immediately sought to make his investment pay off.

The impact was immediate and, for McCartney, infuriating. When Jackson licensed The Beatles’ counter-culture anthem “Revolution” to Nike for a sneaker ad, McCartney was “incensed,” feeling Michael was “cheapening the music.” Jackson’s team also licensed “All You Need Is Love” to Panasonic and “Good Day Sunshine” for an Oreo cookie commercial.

“I think that’s real cheesy,” McCartney complained publicly. “I don’t think Michael needs the money. I don’t, and Yoko doesn’t either.” He lamented that “All You Need Is Love” should be an anthem, “not a jingle for a frigging loudspeaker system.”

From Jackson’s perspective, he was simply “enabling the music to reach a new generation of fans.” But for Paul, it was a violation.

In 1990, the two men met face-to-face to “discuss this problem.” McCartney, then 48, laid out his case. “When we signed our deal, John and I didn’t even know what publishing was,” he told Michael. “I signed this deal when I was a fresh-faced 20-year-old… you mean I’ve got to be content for the rest of my life” with that deal? He wanted Michael to recognize his role as the company’s biggest writer and give him a raise on his royalty rate.

According to McCartney, Michael acted as though he didn’t understand, but was sympathetic. He “told Paul that he didn’t want to hurt anyone” and “promised that he’d try to work something out.”

Paul left the meeting happy. The next day, his attorney called John Branca to renegotiate the higher royalty. Branca checked with Michael, who delivered a cold, shocking reversal: “Heck no, I didn’t tell Paul that. He’s not getting a higher royalty unless I get something back from him in return.”

When Paul’s attorney threatened to sue, Branca’s reply was curt: “Hey, be my guest.” Michael’s private instructions to his lawyer were even more brutal: “Let him sue… Let’s go out there and make some money. Let’s run this thing like a business.”

Privately, Jackson’s camp felt McCartney was a hypocrite. “Paul McCartney had multiple chances to buy the company, but he was too cheap to spend the money,” one associate stated, noting Paul’s immense wealth. “As Mike told me, ‘If he didn’t want to invest $47.5 million in his own songs, then he shouldn’t come crying to me now.’”

Complicating the narrative was Yoko Ono. John Lennon’s widow was “pleased” Jackson had acquired the catalog, calling it a “blessing.” “Businessmen who aren’t artists themselves wouldn’t have the consideration Michael has,” she stated in 1990. “He loves the songs. He’s very caring.” She added that if she or Paul owned the songs, “there would certainly be arguments.”

For years, McCartney remained bitter, famously complaining that he had to pay to perform his own songs. When Jackson died suddenly in 2009, rumors flew that he would, as a final act of grace, return the songs to Paul in his will. McCartney quickly debunked it. “This is completely untrue… I had not thought for one minute that the original report… was true.”

By the time of his death, Jackson, facing financial ruin, had already sold off most of his share of the now-merged Sony/ATV catalog.

In his later years, McCartney’s public stance softened, though the wound remained. “I got off that years ago,” he said, acknowledging that “these sort of things can eat you up.” He admitted that he “remained hurt” over the acquisition, a betrayal that stung for decades. Yet, he could never fully hate the man who was once his friend. He spoke highly of Jackson, calling him a “massively talented boy man with a gentle soul. I feel privileged to have hung out and worked with Michael.”

It was a tragic postscript to a broken friendship—a relationship forged in music and shattered by the very business it created.