Who runs
Tunecamp?

You've been releasing music on streaming platforms for years. You get a payout report every month — and every month you remind yourself that 0.003€ per stream is not a relationship. Your fans don't subscribe to you, they subscribe to the platform. You're interchangeable with every other artist in the catalogue.

With Tunecamp you run your own server at yourname.com. Fans visit your site, stream your releases, and buy downloads directly — no cut taken. Your Fediverse actor means anyone on Mastodon or Pixelfed can follow you and get notified when you drop something new. The 4-track recorder lets you publish rough demos the same afternoon you record them.

You run a small label — five, maybe ten artists. You handle distribution, artwork, social media, and the eternal question of what to do when Bandcamp changes its fee structure again. Your whole roster lives on third-party infrastructure that you pay for but don't control.

One Tunecamp instance becomes the label's home. You upload every release, maintain the full back catalogue, and let each artist have their own page within the same server. New releases land simultaneously on the Fediverse and on your own store. Fans who buy directly keep you from losing a percentage to middlemen on every transaction. When you need to migrate a file format or update metadata across the whole catalogue, you do it without filing a support ticket.

You and your friends have been collecting records for decades — jazz, dub, krautrock, rare soul. You share rips in a Telegram group, argue about turntable settings, and live with the quiet anxiety that the hard drive with your digitized collection will eventually fail and take 30 years of crate digging with it.

A shared Tunecamp instance becomes your crew's private listening room and archive. Everyone contributes rips from their collection. The Subsonic API means you can stream it all from your phone at a record fair. The federation layer means you can peer with other collector communities — find that obscure pressing you've been looking for on someone else's instance. The files are yours, hosted on hardware in someone's apartment, not behind a subscription wall.

You run a blog, a newsletter, a Discord, or a community radio channel. You spend hours putting together listening guides, themed mixes, introductions to obscure artists. Your community trusts your taste. But the moment you point them to a streaming link, you're handing them to an algorithm that will immediately try to pull them away from what you built.

Your Tunecamp instance is your editorial space. You upload the music you feature — with permission, or music that's openly licensed — and present it your way: in albums, curated by mood, with context you write yourself. Your community listens on your site. They follow your instance from Mastodon. When you publish a new set, they see it in their feed — not buried under the platform's recommendations.

Like the people behind Anna's Archive or the Internet Archive's music collections, you believe that cultural preservation is an act of public service. You've watched netlabel catalogues disappear when domains expired. You've seen entire scenes evaporate from the internet — early dubstep forums, experimental noise blogs, regional folk traditions recorded in someone's living room in the 1990s — because no institution thought they were worth keeping.

Your Tunecamp instance is a library node. You run it on a server with redundant storage, you seed every upload as a torrent, and you connect to other preservation-minded instances in the federation. The music stays findable. The metadata stays accurate. If someone does a web search for a forgotten record five years from now, your instance is there — not a dead Bandcamp link, not a 404. The manifesto says it clearly: this is not just a streaming server, it is a personal archive.

You teach music production, run a songwriting residency, or organize community recording workshops. Your students make things worth sharing. Right now, their work goes into a shared Google Drive that nobody visits, or onto SoundCloud where it competes for attention with every other upload on the internet.

A Tunecamp instance becomes the school's living portfolio. Students upload their recordings with proper metadata; the instance becomes the end-of-year showcase, the proof of work, the portfolio link they send to labels and residencies. The 4-track recorder in the browser means no DAW or hardware setup is required for quick experiments. Parents, guests, and other schools can browse the catalogue freely. Nothing is locked behind a subscription.

You loop drum breaks, chop vocals, and build packs of one-shots and loops for other producers — but every sample site wants an account, a paywall, or buries the license terms in fine print you have to trust blindly.

Tunecamp's free sample library lets you upload loops and one-shots with BPM, key, tags, and a clear license (CC0, CC-BY, CC-BY-SA, or royalty-free) attached to every file — no price, no sale, no credits system. Anyone browsing the instance can preview and download them directly. Because it's federated, a sample pack you publish on your instance is discoverable across the whole Tunecamp network, not locked to one site.