Suno’s official policy states that its platform does not allow the use of copyrighted material. Users are encouraged to upload their own recordings, remix them, or add original lyrics to AI‑generated music. In theory, the service should detect and reject any uploaded track that contains protected songs or lyrics.

In practice, the filter is far from foolproof. With a few minutes of work and free tools like Audacity, users can alter a song’s speed, add a brief white‑noise burst at the beginning and end, and then upload the modified file to Suno Studio. The platform’s Premier Plan, priced at $24 per month, lets users edit the track back to its original tempo and remove the noise, effectively using the copyrighted work as a seed for a new AI‑generated composition.

The loophole produces uncanny‑valley covers that sound almost identical to the source material. Tests show that popular songs—including Beyoncé’s “Freedom,” Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid,” Aqua’s “Barbie Girl,” and even the Dead Kennedys’ “California Über Alles”—can be reproduced with minimal changes. Model versions 4.5 and 4.5+ tend to retain the original instrumental arrangement, while the newer v5 model adds more aggressive stylistic alterations, such as a chugging guitar on “Freedom” or a fiddle‑driven jig on the Dead Kennedys track.

Lyric filters suffer similar weaknesses. Suno blocks exact copies of copyrighted lyrics, but slight spelling tweaks—changing “rain on this bitter love” to “reign on” or “tell the sweet I’m new” to “tell the suite”—allow the AI to generate vocals that closely mimic the original performance. Even indie artists are not immune; several self‑released songs passed the detection system without any alteration.

Beyond the technical breach, the platform’s design creates a straightforward path to monetization. Once an AI‑generated cover is exported, it can be uploaded to distribution services such as DistroKid or CD Baby and placed on streaming platforms like Spotify. Because Suno appears to scan only the uploaded source file and not the final output, the resulting tracks can slip through existing copyright safeguards.

Artists have begun to feel the impact. Folk musician Murphy Campbell discovered AI‑crafted versions of her own YouTube songs appearing on her Spotify profile. A distributor, Vydia, filed copyright claims on those tracks—despite the songs being in the public domain—and began collecting royalties. After a social‑media outcry, Spotify removed the infringing covers and Vydia rescinded its claims, but the episode highlighted how easily AI‑generated fakes can infiltrate streaming services.

Other creators, including experimental composer William Basinski and the indie rock group King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard, have reported similar incidents, with AI copies siphoning streams from their official pages. In a market where a thousand streams are needed to earn a single dollar, such losses disproportionately affect less‑known musicians.

Streaming platforms are not standing idle. Spotify spokesperson Chris Macowski said the company employs a mix of automated detection and human review to block unauthorized uploads, yet he acknowledged the difficulty of keeping pace with a flood of AI‑generated content. Services like Deezer and Qobuz have also rolled out anti‑spam measures, but the underlying problem remains: platforms like Suno enable the creation of infringing works faster than rights holders can react.

When approached for comment, Suno declined to respond. The silence leaves artists with limited recourse; while they can request removal of AI fakes from streaming services, pinpointing the source of the infringement—whether a Suno filter failure or another tool—remains challenging. As AI music generation continues to evolve, the gap between creative possibility and copyright enforcement widens, exposing a vulnerable segment of the music ecosystem.

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