Your records get
flagged. Not theirs.
Tightly timed, heavily processed, pitch-corrected, loud. That's the profile detection hunts for — and it's your entire craft.
Founding access · Logic Pro is the first release · nothing leaves your machine
the thing they’re hunting.
An acoustic trio recorded live never gets flagged. A record you spent six weeks getting right gets flagged again and again, because the closer it is to finished, the more it resembles a machine.
The release sits in a queue. The moment passes. You appeal with an email and hope.
into the dark.
Twelve packs out to eight artists, three of whom you've never met. Somewhere in there is the one that lands, and you'll find out about it from Instagram.
Meanwhile you can't remember whether the guitar on that 2025 session was a Splice sample or something you cleaned up with a separation tool. Now the upload form is asking you to declare it, under your name.
runs a black box.
Record-arms, takes, punch-ins, faders you rode by hand, chains you built and scrapped, every import and where it came from. Splice comes back as a licensed human sample with the pack named. A generated clip comes back flagged, on that stem alone.
You stop guessing on the declaration form. You look it up.
the argument.
31 sessions. 47 active hours. 143 takes. Nine days between abandoning the chorus and rebuilding it. Every import accounted for.
Sent to a distributor, that's an afternoon instead of eleven days. Sent to a lawyer, it's the strongest thing anyone in your position has ever been able to produce.
Who's at the desk right now?
Sessions with more than one producer are where attribution falls apart completely. You swap seats four times in an afternoon and the log has no idea anything changed.
So when a second producer joins, two buttons float in the corner. Whoever takes the chair taps their name. Everything from that moment is theirs until someone taps the other one.
Two taps an hour, and at the end of the day the session knows that M. built the drums and the arrangement while D. Marin replaced the bass and cut the guitars — with the hours next to each.
It's the least work anyone has ever done for accurate credits.
You already built the workflow. Now it can earn.
Every producer and every engineer has a set of moves they run on every record. Nobody has ever been paid for one.
Your mix-prep routine. The way you gain-stage a session before you touch a fader. The drum bus you rebuild from memory every single time. The comping pass you do on every vocal. Your stem-delivery naming convention that actually works.
That knowledge is the difference between you and someone who bought the same plugins. It's also completely trapped — you can teach it to an assistant over six months, or you can watch someone rediscover it badly.
Publish it once. It runs for everyone.
Revo Co-Pilot performs real operations inside the DAW. A workflow is you telling it the order you do things in, and what "right" looks like. Then any producer can invoke it by name, or just ask for it in plain language.
And you get paid every time it runs
Not a one-off sale. Usage-based, monthly, for as long as people keep using it.
You don't have to write code. You build the workflow the way you'd build anything else — by doing it once with Revo watching, naming it, and cleaning it up. If you can run the session, you can publish the workflow.
The first honest way this industry has found to pay for craft that isn't a performance.
An engineer's comping method is worth something to four thousand people. A producer's mix-prep routine saves twenty minutes a session, forever. Until now the only way to monetise either was to be in the room yourself.