The printer’s file, the digital program behind the QR code, the ad pages that pay for it, the donor roll. Typeset from one description of the concert, and written in your organization’s voice.
The real materials, yours to edit line by line. About four minutes.
Ashfield SymphonySame door either way. You only ever write what’s new about this concert.
Upload last season’s program. Seasonata matches your look and carries over your people — letter for letter.
Tell us what you’re performing. The music-program style rules are applied for you as you type — there is nothing to set up first.
Drop your season in — dates, programs, artists — and Seasonata maps it. Every concert gets its own campaign kit, and the season itself gets one more: the announcement that sells the arc.
Each row of your season opens into a full campaign — email, social posts, program note, press — written in your voice, and nothing goes out without your approval.
The season campaign announces all of it at once — and asks your audience to stay for the year, not just the night.
Local businesses buy space in your program every season. Seasonata runs the part everyone dreads — the asking, the artwork, the proof, the invoice — and remembers who bought last time.
Pick the businesses, and Seasonata writes the offer in your voice with your rates. You send a link — no forms to build, no files to collect over email.
The buyer opens your link, picks a size, and uploads artwork on whatever device they’re holding. If they don’t have a file ready, Seasonata goes and finds their logo.
Most groups print one book in autumn; each concert gets a slim insert from the copy shop. Rather print per concert? Say so once — everything re-cuts.
Made last year’s in Word or Canva? Bring it in — we read the page, never retype it.
Your page count has to be a multiple of four. A stapled book is folded sheets, so 18 pages can’t be printed — 16, 20 or 24 can. We flag it in July, while there’s still time to sell one more page instead of cutting one.
Bad artwork caught in July. Every uploaded ad is checked the moment it arrives, not the morning it’s due.
One spec sheet you can send to three printers. Trim, bleed, stock, ink, quantity — written the way an estimate form asks, so the quotes come back comparable instead of three different guesses.
Also a plain PDF for the copy shop down the road.
Your audience knows this music better than we ever will — so the parts that must be correct aren’t left to a guess. Four things that cannot happen:
Quotes pulled from your own website have to appear word for word on the page they came from. Anything that doesn’t is set aside and counted, where you can see it.
Fundraising copy speaks to giving levels in aggregate. It never names an individual donor and never states or implies an amount — those belong to your files, not to a draft.
We’ll paint Beethoven — a real portrait, under a licence we can read — and we never generate your people. Headshots are the ones your artists gave you.
Where your materials are thin, drafts stay short and honest rather than reaching for history that isn’t there. What the music does needs no citation; a premiere date does.
Those four are the short list. Every refusal, collected — and why each one holds →
Classical musicians are exacting about their programs — so the parts that must be correct are never left to a draft.
The program listing follows the standard music style sheet — italics, roman numerals, instrument names — applied for you, never guessed.
When you upload a past program, we point at where the donor and roster lists are. The names are copied from your file, never retyped.
Paste a real press release or a few posts and every draft sounds like your organization — never generic.
Nothing here stores its own copy of the truth. There is one season — concerts, works, people, dates, rates — and every page, book, email and slate is a view of it. No file named final-v3.
Maria cancels in October. You say so in one place and every dependent document knows — the slip, the slate, the email, the website. The printed book is marked printed, because it can’t know.
The account belongs to the ensemble. Sarah steps down after four years and the rates, the twelve advertisers and who sells to whom stay. Her successor starts informed.
“No exposition repeat in the Fifth — timing, per David, 2 October.” The conversation happened in Slack; the conclusion lives here.
All of it from one description, entered once.
Real output from the studio — the same concert once its works are entered, typeset by the style sheet. You supply the music; the style sheet decides how it sits on the page. Touch a receipt to see what it decided, and what it refused to do.
The listing above is the studio’s actual output, byte for byte — a test fails if this page and the studio ever disagree. The rules are the standard style sheet for concert programs (D. Kern Holoman, Writing About Music). Drafts are for your prose only; the listing is never drafted, it is typeset.
Every concert campaign, the season map, the typeset program, the digital program — all of it, for the whole season. Standing Room — the ad desk plus the chasing: reservations, artwork, proofs, invoices, renewals — is $900, everything above included. Free gets you one draft; the season gets you all of it.
Unlimited concerts and campaigns for one season, in your voice, under your name. Your first draft is free — no sign-in, no card.
Everything above, and the asking, the artwork, the proofs, the invoices — run for you, approved by you. We take no cut of anything sold: a percentage would make the rate-card advice suspect, and you’d be right not to trust it.