Introduction:
“Know your eyes in the morning sun. I feel you touch me…” These haunting first lines from the Bee Gees’ timeless hit serve as a reminder: sometimes, what seems pure and heartfelt may carry hidden echoes. In the 1970s, Barry, Robin and Maurice Gibb were on top of the world. Their music dominated airwaves, soundtracked a cultural movement and defined an era. But behind that sparkle lay a shadow — a little-known Chicago songwriter stepping forward, claiming the melody that made the Bee Gees millions was actually his.
The year was 1977. The Bee Gees weren’t merely making records, they were defining a cultural moment: the soundtrack of the disco age, the anthem of night fever and love under flashing lights. Yet in a quiet Chicago suburb, another story was brewing. 
Ronald H. Selle (though some sources render the name differently) listened to one of the Bee Gees’ biggest ballads, and froze. In his mind he recognized a melody he had written two years earlier — a song titled “Let It End”. In his view, what the Bee Gees presented as their original creation for “How Deep Is Your Love” was, in fact, his own work.
Driven by more than money, this was a matter of recognition and justice for him. He believed the chord progression, melodic line and emotional build were his — and suddenly his dream of songwriting success collided with the world’s favourite love song. In 1983, he filed suit against the Bee Gees and their publishing and recording entities, accusing them of plagiarism and copyright infringement. The case was cited as Selle v. Gibb. 
What made the trial extraordinary wasn’t just the fame of the defendants — it was the larger question it posed: Where does influence end and theft begin? At trial, both sides played their melodies back to back. Listeners testified they sounded eerily alike; the emotional effect, the build, the feel — all too similar. Yet the law demands more than feeling. In copyright law, it isn’t enough to show two works are “very similar” — you must show the alleged infringer had access to the work. And in this case, the Bee Gees’ defence held that there was no evidence they ever heard Selle’s tape. Despite the initial jury verdict favouring Selle, the court of appeals reversed the verdict: similarity alone could not substitute for proof of access.
The outcome left no winner in the public eye: the Bee Gees’ reputation survived, but the creative wound remained. For Selle, the moment of vindication vanished; for the Bee Gees and Barry in particular, the case left a deeper mark. After the trial they reportedly became meticulous about documenting songwriting sessions — every demo date-stamped, every musician witness signed. Because when your art connects with millions, someone somewhere might believe they owned it all along.
This isn’t simply a tale about a “$50 million lawsuit” or a forgotten songwriter chasing fame. It’s about the fragility of creativity in a world built on repetition and shared emotions. It’s about how a melody, once released to the air, belongs not just to the writer but to everyone who hears it — and sometimes that shared belonging brings conflict. As one expert put it: “It’s like two people painting the same sunset. The colours might look alike, but no one owns the sky.”
So as you listen to “How Deep Is Your Love”, perhaps you’ll hear more than the falsetto, the rhythm, the smooth harmony. Perhaps you’ll hear the echo of a piano in a small studio in Chicago, a man asking: Did they borrow from me, or did we all borrow from the same human heart?
Because in the end, the question no court quite answered remains for us: Who truly owns a melody? And maybe, just maybe, the answer belongs less to the composer, and more to the listener.