Cloud storage for music: does Vidual Spaces fit?

A folder-syncing tool treats a mix like any other file: a blob of bytes to copy up and down, with a filename and a modified date and nothing else. That works right up until the work starts moving through other hands, and then the same gaps open that photographers and editors know well. You send a rough mix, and silence follows — did it arrive, did they even open it? You get feedback in an email, or a text, or a voice note, and now the note about the boomy low end at the second chorus lives three apps away from the file it’s about. You upload mix_final_v3 and then mix_final_v3_ACTUAL, and six months later nobody can tell which one shipped.

What audio work asks for on top of plain storage is the ability to hold large session files without choking, to let someone hear a track properly rather than downloading a 300 MB stem pack just to check a level, to keep feedback attached to the moment in the track it refers to, and to know a link landed. Those are the same jobs a film review needs, framed for the ear instead of the eye — which is why the parts of Vidual Spaces that already serve filmmakers carry over to a mix more directly than you might expect.

We store any file you put in a Space; there’s no format allow-list, so WAVs, stems, project bundles and bounced masters sit alongside everything else. Storage is measured in whole terabytes across every plan, so large session files aren’t a special case — the 2 TBon the smallest plan is room for a great many sessions. And every audio file is read as it arrives: tempo, key, loudness, sample rate and bit depth are lifted into facts the library understands, so “tracks around 120 bpm” or “everything in F minor” is simply a search you type, and a master’s fidelity is visible at a glance without opening a DAW to check. The reading happens on our own machines, like all the intelligence in Spaces — your unreleased work is never shown to anyone else’s model.

Feedback is designed to weld itself to the moment it’s about, and for audio that means a real waveform: a shared mix opens in a player built for review, where you scrub by eye, loop the section that needs arguing over, and drop a note on the exact bar it concerns — and as the playhead crosses each comment, the note rises off the waveform, so the conversation replays with the track. A collaborator can answer in their own voice, too: a voice note pinned to the same moment, so the hum of how the line ought to go survives in a way no typed note manages. Every share is a clean, branded page a collaborator can open, play and download without an account, and the link keeps its own record of how many times it was opened and whether the files were taken — you can read more about how we built all this for photographers, filmmakers and musicians.

And one thing we believe nobody else does at all: an invited collaborator can put on headphones and record themselves over the top of the mix, right there on the share page, still without an account. The vocal idea, the harmony that only exists in someone’s head at midnight, the “what if the bridge went like this” — it lands back with the session, anchored to the moment it was sung, instead of arriving three days later as a voice memo with no context.

Where a dedicated audio host still earns its keep is everything beyond storage and review: we don’t give you an artist page, and we don’t distribute anything anywhere. If playlist-style public presentation is the point, that’s a different tool doing a different job. And one practical note on the fortnight’s trial: it comes with 5 GB, which is room enough for a proper round of mixes and masters with your collaborators, though not for the stem archive — bring the project you’re actively arguing about rather than the back catalogue.

The wedge for a small team is the pricing model rather than any single number. Dedicated hosts and generic tools like Dropbox tend to charge per seat, so the moment you bring in a mastering engineer, a manager and a couple of session players, the monthly bill grows with the room. On our pricing, the size of your storage is the only thing that changes what you pay — you can invite the whole session and pay the same £79.

Picture the morning after you send a mix out. There’s one page you open, and it tells you the link was viewed twice overnight; the note about the second chorus is sitting at the exact bar it refers to, with your reply and a resolved tick beneath it; a voice note hums the top line the way they actually want it, pinned where it belongs; and the previous version sits in the same review, so nobody’s arguing about which bounce is current. No inbox to comb, no voice memos to transcribe onto a notepad, no cross-checking filenames. The checking simply stops, because the record kept itself.