It was the bark heard round the Universe. The inhabitants of Orbis Canum were a peaceful bunch: four-legged, furry, mostly cute. While they had accomplished much in their planet’s history, it was their lack of opposable thumbs that limited their opportunities for advancement. In no way primitive, the Caeruleum had developed simplistic ways to fight, mainly with their teeth (and sometimes their cavernous, echoing shouting known as “barking”). This left the populace each with a mouth capable of smiling and a death grip nearly unmatched. However, when the people of Germaniae invaded Orbis Canum, they did so with advanced weaponry, like coil accelerators, capable of delivering devastating rounds that would pulverize even the strongest of Caeruleum. To the rescue came the Sopwith. They had signed a treaty with Orbis Canum some decades past to provide protection in exchange for work offworld, which would benefit both planets. Armed with propeller-powered crafts, both the Sopwith and the Caeruleum took to the skies, the furry inhabitants’ keen eyesight and hearing alerting pilots to potential bombing targets and strafing enemy craft. The deadliest duo was Leo Joco, veteran pilot of several intergalactic wars, and his companion Daisy, a black-and-white Caeruleum whose accuracy was unmatched. Together they fought through the Germaniaen forces, obliterating frigates and columns of troops, interrupting supply and communication lines, and trudging deep into enemy territory to deliver a blistering and explosive message: “We will never surrender.” The war would stretch on for 17 years, incurring millions of casualties on both sides. Daisy, who survived the war and passed away just a few weeks after the Treaty of Treats was signed, had ensured that Caeruleum would forever be safe from invasion with the establishment of planetary borders and an extended gravity and revolution contingency plan. In honor of Daisy, the members of Dog Fight, themselves Caeruleumians, formed amid the war, nine years in and eight years to go, as a way for the government to earn more money to continue building and surviving. Commissioned by President Sweetlips, the resulting album, some say, turned the tide of war. Within were eight blistering tracks, as if one were taped to the very wing of a craft, zooming through the air, dropping grenades, bricks, whatever you could find, onto the enemy. Daisy, of course, was at the center of the narrative, her photo adorning the album’s cover as her celebrity rose amongst the resistance. Featuring heavy, crunching bass, soaring melodies, and cloud-like rhythm and padding, Dog Fight is only half the picture. As there was never a follow-up album to coincide with the end of the war, it served as the fuel that stoked the flames of freedom, but never encapsulated the actual price that was paid. Daisy, between sorties, would make public appearances, sign paw-tographs, and encourage citizens to buy the album; then, it was back to the wing of her plane, gripping onto the canvas for dear life as she barked out instructions to the pilot. The Germaniaens feared the echoing call that would precede the whining buzz of her propellered vessel, knowing all too well that death was just beyond the horizon. So exhilarating was the album that some listeners, with weaker constitutions, could not make it through even the opening track. It was here that Dog Fight could have cemented itself as a powerhouse group: commissioned by the government and then breaking into the industry to spread its message. But funding dried up as more troops arrived from beyond the stars, and money was diverted away from the public-facing war effort. We salute both Daisy and Dog Fight; they created indelible images of bravery, freedom, and creativity, inspiring others to pick up both keyboard and weapon in the never-ending battle to keep the tastiest beats in the Universe free.

Dog Fight

Funeral for a Vampire, who had charmed the Universe with their debut, simply titled I, had fled the village of Nyx after witnessing a ruse in the making. A funeral for an elder in the town square was actually an ambush, unleashing vampires from the depths in an attempt to bypass the Feast of the Ancient Ones and harvest more human blood year-round. Noodles, Dex, Kyv, and Giallo took to the Bleeding Fields outside the village, wading through mud and mist, hiding their scent from briar wolves as they fought for survival. Not content with just evading the pale creatures, they made a pact to end, once and for all, the rule of Count Vrykola, who was said to have ruled for over 500 years on a throne of blood. The trail of dead leading to Castle Ifaísteio was mostly unhelpful, save for the withered hand of a journeyman, his last gasp clutching an ancient text. It was hard to read as decay and erosion had played their part, but the context was clear: an elixir of divinity. Gathering the ingredients together, the band coated their instruments in the glowing mush, supercharging them with piety and penance. Up the castle steps, their rhythm and melody soaring, they beat back the charging vampire hordes, enveloping them in sonic waves that removed their flesh from their bones and vaporized what was left in a holy light. From the crumbling anterooms, to the cistern, to the Armory of Bones, they battled, honing their music into a raging sword, swinging it with abandon until the Lord of Shadows had had enough, making his presence known. Audionauts, so too did he come prepared, a raging piano swirling the band's pathetic attempt and shackling them into invisible submission. Count Vrykola bared his fangs, ready to put an end to the uprising, but his guiding hand began to tingle, breaking the spell. Sunlight. The night had crept into dawn, the pained outbursts of his coven echoing along the Bleeding Fields as they begged for protection, unable to make it to the castle grounds in time. His attempts to disrupt the Feast of the Ancient Ones had cost him his loyalists and his kingdom. Before the sun could finalize his reign, he absconded to a coffin of obsidian and gold, locking himself within. Noodles and his sonic altruists readied their final performance, their strength returning in a blaze of adrenaline, and swallowed the coffin with their raging beats until the very elements began to splinter. Count Vrykola begged for forgiveness as his prison exploded, his skin devoured by the sun, his bones left as only ash. They had held their own funeral for a vampire, but it was short-lived. This is where part two of Funeral for a Vampire's saga concludes, with the chest-thumping melodies of II, an ode to their sonic battles with the undead, no longer afraid to run, but still fearful of looking over their shoulder. Part three, aptly titled III, has yet to be released, but, in its stead, the IBP is proud to announce the decoding of The Vrykola Codex, a tome of appreciation and lament for the members of Funeral of a Vampire, chronicling the rise and fall of Count Vrykola and the members of the band. Its cryptic epilogue is especially chilling: warning of a new threat that is rising to the West, marking, perhaps, the beginning of the end for the melodies of Funeral for a Vampire.

Still Waiting…while having an outward double meaning (the agonizing wait of success and the immobility of the abandoned scarecrow), the members of The Brain, The Heart, and the Liquid Courage were also waiting to be rescued. Forgotten almost entirely after a tour through the Sunflower Galaxy, lead singer Strawman dispatched a signal into the universe (strangely enough, this album) and for 188 years the sound traveled, undeciphered, until a passing starship interpreted the message as an invitation to a great outdoor concert. The concert did go on, of course, much to the chagrin of BHLC; this momentous event, however, is forever cemented as the second-largest intergalactic festival behind Beetstock 3000.

Visit the new Intergalactic Beets Project website: www.intergalacticbeetsproject.com
View the IBP entry on Stil Waiting...: intergalacticbeetsproject.com/stillwaiting

Still Waiting

A force to be reckoned with, literally, Sorry I Am Late, the nom de plume of GR Grimey, used their life experiences (their many life experiences) to compile a truly unique concept record. Detailing their ascent from humble trainee to full-fledged ferry-person of souls, SIAL (as fans call them) truly brought a sense of anxiety and triumph to a deliciously rich album. Wild instrumentals detail the treacherous trip across the River Styx, into the Mouth of Madness, and to the funky resting place of the lucky few.

Visit the new Intergalactic Beets Project website: www.intergalacticbeetsproject.com
View the IBP entry on Sorry I Am Late: intergalacticbeetsproject.com/sorryiamlate

Sorry I Am Late

Magnetic Horizon barely survived the release of their underappreciated debut album Polar Opposites. Poorly received by listeners due to a manufacturing error that replaced all the drums with an annoying interference buzz, they set out to make a good second impression by suspending their fizzling tour and locking themselves away in a studio located at the famous spa retreat of CFBDSIR 2149−0403. The first day’s session proved unproductive until the band realized that the sun did not shine on CFBDSIR 2149−0403, and that three weeks had already passed! Fueled by the time displacement, the drum tracks came quickly and the beats flowed with abandon. Whether they recorded the album in just a few hours or a few decades, only the band’s room service bill would reveal the truth. For the rest of the universe, one hundred years, and lots of tasty beats, had already passed when Magnetic Horizon finally revealed their magnum opus, but the band was too old to perform it live. Daylight Dead End would live on as a tour de force that could only be experienced between the cushy embrace of a pair of headphones.

Visit the new Intergalactic Beets Project website: www.intergalacticbeetsproject.com
View the IBP entry on Daylight Dead End: intergalacticbeetsproject.com/daylightdeadend

Daylight Dead End

Time Is Running Out

While the name of the album, the band, and the store that inspired it were all named Fungus Emporium, the idea to honor the curio shop stationed in the Milky Way Galaxy (just outside Saturn) was purely accidental. After taking their tour shuttle for a bit of a joy ride (they in fact were being chased by angry venue purveyors) the members of Dyrt accidentally crashed into the humble store. Nearly their entire inventory ended up plowing through the windshield of the vessel, costing them, and Ramm Mush, the owner, millions of space bucks. In order to work off the debt to Fungus Emporium, and the previous venues they also almost destroyed, Dyrt changed their name to Fungus Emporium and was commissioned to make an album that could be sold at the counter once the shop was able to reopen. Though they never saw a Space Buck from the whole ordeal, the album went on to make Mr. Mush so wealthy, he dissolved the store (literally, by heat ray) and retired to what was then known as Miami Beach II.

Photosynthesizer

Previously thought lost to solar exposure and space dust erosion, the full version of Anima Mundi’s single Hang In There is now presented in its full version, as of September 12th.

At the Jemdet Wrecking Yard in Venera, the Venusian duo of Animal Monday had cleared their weekend to collect circuitry, copper, and any other bits they could use to repair their synthesizers. Venerable outcasts among their peers, a recent live show had ended early when stark-raving-mad drunkards smashed their instruments and took off into the night. As they were rummaging, an acid rainstorm, common in the southern hemisphere, forced them into the comfort of a vintage space cruiser. As neon lighting cackled across the sky, they soon realized they were not alone. The vehicle, as it turned out, once belonged to the local police; deactivated android in the backseat too had been the property of the municipality. Its strange, toothy smile frightened the duo at first (a neighbor reported a bevy of screams for just over fifteen minutes) but after the initial shock, and the discovery of additional arm and leg attachments in the trunk, Animal Monday exchanged the electrified baton for a drum stick and put the bot to work. Dubbed B0BB1, the former copper no longer kept the peace, but the beat, drumming perfectly in sync to the buzzing synthesizers of his new mates. After a bit of tweaking (and a few malicious reversions to its old ways) the new trio quickly launched themselves into the studio and on tour, where a fateful promoter would mispronounce their band name, birthing the hit-makers we know today as Anima Mundi. As fate would have it, the ruffians who had smashed their instruments just months before were at that very show. In their infinite wisdom, they had included a special switch on the back of their automated drummer for just such an occasion.

Hang In There

Much like Zimbardo The Paradox, though not nearly as malevolent, the Oracle of Ptolohossos straddled the line between profound truth-teller and party monster. His bulbous, pale green head would often undulate as he presided over his flock of followers, his telepathic powers giving credence to the visions each member had had before, during, and following the sometimes six-hour concerts. Not to say that this was a bad thing; there were plenty of prizes and giveaways during the Oracle's shows, and often his concentration would break out into dance sequences that would make even the most seasoned partygoer weep in wonder. This juxtaposition made the Oracle a magnetic and polarizing artist, eventually doomed his creativity and popularity. With the incredible power of future thought comes disappointment. He foresaw his death (not his physical death, but the death of his relevance), and the impending threat was too profound to ignore and, due to the nature of fate, could not be changed. Slowly, the sands of time began to swallow him, and his telepathic powers became unstable. He knew this was coming, and his final gasp was to commit his absolute purity to his final record. Aptly titled Oracle, his third and final album is a rollercoaster ride of staggering, whining beats that pound the heart with a bass and drum combination that drives the feet to stomp. His fight against fate ultimately cost him his career when telepathic-blocking technology became more prevalent and affordable. The legacy of Oracle, however, is a bit ironic. Though he faded into obscurity, his powers no longer helpful, Oracle has since become a shining example of how creativity and fame can lead us all into a destructive path. What we choose to do with it, though, cannot, and will not, be left to fate alone.

Surety Brings Ruin

Legends spoke of a machine, or quite possibly a creature, or perhaps some sort of hybrid, that would roam the universe in search of ancient legends, sacred texts, and treasures worth fortunes to those who would pay. Known in most circles, and squares, as Zoku, the smuggler, or thief, or liberator (depending on which side of the line you stood) was both a hero and a scourge. The true definition of a lone wolf, the adventurer and their wolf (an Earth creature smuggled from a meat and fur ring), Zev, made names for themselves by recovering the lost amulet of Veeache Ess, in actuality a data server containing historical records important to a select few creatures. The story of this daring rescue had begun years prior when Zoku had run afoul of an evil conglomerate, Weaver Enterprises, who had paid for them to assassinate a royal maiden intent on diplomacy. Believing they could take the money and skip out on the meal, Zoku was hunted to the ends of the universe. Legend has it, with their blaster and electrified motor blade, they easily fought their way through waves of mercenaries and escaped into the void. Legend also has it, that they were augmented by technology, that servos, and precise calculations were plotted out by a CPU in their brain, allowing them deadly precision. While this is mostly hearsay, the power and empathy of Zoku followed them to The Forest of Resurrection, a cursed zone in which the dead (and perhaps your past selves) would rise should the ground ever be disturbed. This is where the amulet of Veeavche Ess was housed, in the confines of sacred structures. After weeks of searching, their wolf Zev at their side, Zoku eventually discovered the amulet but was double-crossed by those who had employed them. Weaver Enterprises' mercenaries were waiting for them, armed to the tentacles. As the dead clambered from the earth, Zoku had no choice but to fight. What happened next is of some debate, but we know they were sighted sometime after and that the amulet will soon be displayed at the Museum of Intergalactic Innovation. Initial Singularity, the name of their vessel, was also the moniker adopted by the band who plotted out Zoku's incredible adventure to a thundering beat, aptly titled The Forest of Resurrection. Some say, and we must admit, we agree that Initial Singularity has all the markings of Zoku themselves, but, dear Audionauts, to protect the cunning adventurer, we'll keep our collective lips sealed.

Cybernetic Showdown

GR Grimey's sudden heel-like turn into funky, synthwave was far from unexpected. Their debut album, while a dark tapestry of tasty beats, still featured an undercurrent that would help them form the basis of their second album City of Screams. While Sorry I Am Late  (their nom de plume and debut album title) featured their daily commute through the underworld, City of Screams was rooted in the metropolis center of it all. While screams did abound, it was the neon signs offering the selling of souls, the dirty streets of rage, the cold rain that swept across the avenues that made the city what it was. The real City of Screams was quite the hellscape, but one could find some fun if they new exactly where to look. GR Grimey was once such entity and the album's sprawling, hyper-intensive journey was not for the faint of heart, despite the softer tone overall. It was at once an invitation and a warning to those who dared enter the interlocking city streets which shifted under the living creatures that defined the bedrock. Songs like "Muck Market" and "Coffin Rider" took those who had never ventured far from home on a shadowy walk tucked amongst the folds of GR Grimey's distinctive robe, their lantern keeping the imps and soul-stealers at bay. But it was the relatively calm opener, the title track, that lured listeners; throbbing bass and whining synthesizers dragged you across one of the cities many bridges and rose into a bittersweet crescendo as the gates open and there was no going back. City of Screams earned GR Grimey four Top Ten Hits, the most of any album they released, and help to solidify him among a pack of similar artists that sought to quantify the City of Screams.

City Of Screams

For the childish beings of the Milky Way Galaxy's Planet Earth, the Grays were a terrifying sight. In the middle of the night, in the dusty cornfields of the flatlands, the Grays would visit the lonely Earthlings and trample their crops, ducking between the stalks with their bony fingers and oval heads. Snickering in the moonlight, the pranksters could scare the pants off as many as two dozen suckers in just one Earth night. Legends on the planet grew that a "superior" race of intelligent life had descended upon them, the mysteries of the universe somehow unlocked by the rear ends of the simple humans. Admittedly, a rash of abductions did take place when the prank had gone a bit too far, but the nature of these visits was purely comical. For the Grays were, as the Earthlings had predicted, highly intelligent, mastering space travel far faster than even the large-headed Kits of the Tributary Nebula. But, there was no hypothesis about ruining an Earthling's night; it was all in fun. Three such Grays, whose days streaking across the sky confusing pilots of all skills had come to an end, captured the very spirit and the outsized reaction down to the very core with their sophomore album In The Dead Of Night, for it was the dead of night that they had spent their very best days, popping out from behind cows (a milk-based Earth animal) and silently approaching the shocked and horrified faces of the lowest order. With chilling renditions of these encounters, interspersed with the gleeful escape of exiting the Milky Way before the authorities could muster their engines, In The Dead Of Night was directed, with slight malice, towards Earth, the inside joke appealing to a massive audience of fellow Grays who had either put those days behind them or would use it as inspiration to poke fun at the Universe's delightfully unaware rear end.

I Know What I Saw

One can imagine that Prickley Pete has had all sorts of offers: from playing private birthday parties to wild intergalactic travels beyond known stars and everywhere in between. The strangest of all, however, became the basis of his fifth album, Zoop!, named after the nervous tic he inherited from an ancestor when he was both happy and sad, surprised and afraid. A dusty letter had arrived for Prickley Pete in the mail asking him to join the sender, whose signature had been smeared, at his cliffside manor in the Crimson Crystal Galaxy. Prickley Pete was the friendly sort, so he took up the offer and arrived at what was essentially an abandoned mansion. Stained glass was cracked, banisters dusty with spiderwebs; the electricity was busted, and the drip-drip-drip of busted pipes gave way to mold and a peculiar smell. Determined to meet his fans, and thank them for the invitation, Prickley Pete stumbled upon a treasure trove of relics. His own family's relics. For, you see, Prickley Pete had never indeed known his parents, or his family for that matter, and the wealth of photographs, heirlooms, and journals was overwhelming. The cliff notes, pun intended, were that Prickley Pete's ancestors had taken refuge in their mansion after a terrible storm had all but vanquished the adorable town that lined the coast near the base of the crag. Here they waited for help, but none came, the house growing more and more cold and tiresome. Suddenly, the journal entries stopped, the photographs became empty, and there was nothing left. Zoop! ran the gamut between spine-tingling and joyous, punctuated with somber and solemn stretches of haunting keyboard melodies. It was the joy of finding his past and his fear of an unknown future. Would he, too, fade into the night? Or were his ancestors waiting for him to find them and restore their once proud home and the Prickley Pete lineage? Either way, the success of Zoop! cannot be understated. The funds acquired by its massive sales numbers allowed Prickley Pete to continue the hunt for his kind while still generating new beats. To this day, there have been no breaks in the case, and, at this point, all we can say is, "Zoop!"

Zoop!

When the Fantajī Home Entertainment System (known as FHES) was released in 2985, it was a smashing success. Combining state-of-the-art headset technology with edge-of-your-seat graphics pushed the boundaries of what interactivity could accomplish. But, as the fidelity of music, graphics, and gameplay evolved, the hunger for these devolved. Fans pined for the days of pixelated graphics, simple storylines, epic heroes, and quests. Enter Raze The Endless Tower, a multiplayer, cooperative romp through a mystical land known as Rōzuk, known for its prized, magical flowers, which had undergone a terrible transformation by an invading warlord known as Akuryō. Nearly ten Earth feet tall, the hulking monster designed five terrible Towers to watch over the land, from which his minions launched counterattacks to anyone who dared invade. The player was tasked with forming a war party to ambush each tower and restore the Five Petals of the Rose of Peace, a symbol of Rōzuk's commitment to the planet. Without it, their allies would not come to their aid, fearing the land had been lost to evil forever. It's pixelated and simplified graphics harkened back to the entertainment systems of millennia ago, and its cooperative gameplay encouraged friends and family to create their own characters to enter the strange and fantastic world. The Debugger Alliance, hot off their debut album ASCii, were commissioned to create the throwback soundtrack, which very much mirrored their own style. With bleeps and bloops abound, they crafted a distinct set of encouraging beats that would carry players from the Start Screen to the End Credits, amplifying the journey with sound effects and motifs that would ensure that the stakes were always high, but incredibly fun. The influence of Raze The Endless Tower is still reverberating today, and, though it never spawned any sequels (the story had met its satisfying conclusion), gamers are still finding ways to unlock secrets hidden within one of the most incredible adventures of all time.

From Mud To Mayhem (And Back Again)

There's no shame in dumpster diving. The best of us have been on the receiving end of the scavenger life, counting our Space Bucks like each one is worth ten times their weight in gwolfs or abarduns. For DAY OLDS, life on the street became a part of their identity, the pride of living off of practically nothing (even when their albums sold in the trillions of units). For it was the streets that gave them their name, their sound, and their swagger. Munching on stale, baked treats and absorbing the rhythm of the alleys in Gorrex City (the capital of the land mass known as Bantam on Ujj IV), trash cans and empty bottles became their drums, the electrical fizzling, their bass, and the honking of car horns, their melodies. Busking on the elevated and underground railways, they became a massive tourist attraction and caught the attention of influential producers, all of them vying for a piece of the quartet. Lead keyboardist, Springkle, rejected the drama of the bidding war and DAY OLDS formed a pact: to reject fame's trappings and give back to the community that had become their surrogate family. Using a tape recorder (an ancient form of musical delivery with a brief brush with fame), they created their debut album, Unfinished Business, an ode to the streets, the treats, and the beats that formed their musical knowledge. The lead single, Ralph, was mistakenly attributed to Ralph "The Baker" Dozen, a famed sweets-magician who often gave the foursome free food. Instead, it was dedicated to the act of vomiting (to ralph or ralphing), a weekly act for DAY OLDS due to the quality of the leftover food they consumed. With Space Bucks pulled from every ratta hole in the city, they converted the tape to vinyl and sold it on street corners and grocery stores, off-track-betting dens and the homes of misters and mistresses of the night. Fame did not elude them, but their power to reject it remained strong (even through three subsequent albums). For DAY OLDS, the streets would always be their home and their family. If you should be walking the streets of Gorrex City these days, you might hear, and maybe even see, DAY OLDS themselves, munching their way through the tastiest of beats.

Ralph

Bad Scientists were always honest about their backgrounds. No, they were not certified in any field of science or mathematics, but they had witnessed the phenomenon known as "string theory" firsthand. Most today know this as String Law, but in 4885, it was still regarded as a mere theory, begging to be proven. The trio of Bad Scientists (Emmitt, Keenbeen, and Wouldstokk) had heard the theoretical framework in passing but were surprised, in the summer of 4884, to have stumbled upon the aforementioned strings in a routine space flight. Only passengers, the invisible coffers opened to them, the strings that connected the universe suddenly revealed to them. Vibrations surged through each string, transferring heat, energy, and momentum in every direction. The spaceline regarded this blip (seen by other passengers) as "an anomaly caused by space dust caught in the shuttle's window sashes." The public accepted the explanation, and so did most of the other passengers, except, of course, for the Bad Scientists. Already working on a debut album, they scrapped the intended sound (polka meets black metal) for an otherworldly sound matching the chaos and beauty of the strings in the pitch-black void. The move proved, in theory, to be the right one. The album revived the debate on String Theory, pushing legislators to fund scientific research to find ways to turn the discovery into a Law. Space travel and intergalactic construction, management, and conservation would be affected. String Theory, the album became somewhat of an anthem to the egg-headed and four-eyed, though the band lacked these physical attributes themselves and propelled the trio into the niche world they had no intention of entering. Their follow-up, Hypothetical, failed to make a significant splash due to the band's lack of scientific knowledge. One listener was quoted, rather unhappily, with a phrase that followed Bad Scientists for the rest of their career, "They should probably just stick to music."

Parallel Voids

When the news broke that Vlad Voivode was missing from his mobile recording studio on the nearly uninhabitable planet Brraam VI, the music world nearly fell to its knees. For those who knew him, Vlad had always been troubled by his upbringing, and there was no surprise to the conditions he imposed for his second album, Fang Breaker. But for the masses, for fans who had seen him live, this was not only a shock but an anomaly. The rather flamboyant onstage persona was suddenly replaced with that of the cliched, tortured genius. For all parties, this meant denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Radio silence (though his albums kept playing on intergalactic stations) persisted for nearly a decade until a transmission from the Carpathian Galaxy caught the attention of some amateur stargazers. Vlad, as some had predicted, had not succumbed to the harsh terrain of Brraam VI but had, instead, left the planet in search of something else. In this case, his ancestors were a race of creatures known collectively as Revenants. On this journey of self-discovery, Vlad toiled in the snow-swept mountains well-renowned in the Carpathian Galaxy. Legends persisted that the Revenants were a long-dead people, banished to the brutal cold for the lives they had stolen, blood and all. Here, summit after summit, Vlad traversed until, dear Audionauts, a shrine appeared. A winged statue, a hooded figure, and the mouth of a mausoleum. He marched into the darkness, his hydrogen peroxide lamp running low on his electron lantern. Within the tomb was a collection of sarcophagi dedicated to the progenitors of the Revenants: Lord Hereford; Bishop Draven; The Vielwalker; Gorefiend; and Zarkov the Ghoul Emperor. Each had been enshrined and preserved under glass for those who had made the journey to behold. These were powerful sorcerers, god-kings, and devilish brutes who enacted their will on the defenseless. This was not Vlad Voivode. He felt a fearful and cold emptiness wash over him as if he had stumbled across a great curse. However, the powers of the past had grown angry by his presence and, sensing his weakness, awoke, smashing through the glass and assembling into a league of menacing revenge. Vlad did not plead for his life, for he feared he would be swiftly eviscerated; instead, he slung his synthesizer off of his back and began to play. At first, this had little effect, but as the echo in the dead chamber swelled, it was clear that his ancestors had become enamored. Like a lullaby to a crying infant, Thirst Receptors was back, and he had the blessing of his people and the knowledge that his path, however different, could be dictated by one thing and one thing only. The spirits returned, naturally, to their slumbering state, hoping for the next intruder to be less entertaining and with a bit more meat on their bones. Grave of Revenants was not a do-over for Vlad but an evolution of what made his music sink its teeth in and never let go. With an absolutely haunting backbeat and a fear of isolationism and death, the album is not without its toe-tappin' interludes. Here, Vlad is at his absolute best, slinging homemade synth in delicate melodies that build upon one another and echo, just as they did that day in the depths of his people's tomb. Thirst Receptors and Vlad Voivode were now one, and his return to public life was not unlike his namesake, a revenant to some and a Revenant to all.

Mournshade

If you were sentenced to life on a rapidly spinning doughnut-shaped mass of vaporized rock, you might have some objections. Keyboardist Mukhop (she of the amphibian variety hailing from Eukaryota) had been caught breaking windows with cans of OileeZ, the Universe's go-to lubricant for shuttle pistons, the result of an inebriated afternoon with her bandmates Toruss and Roche. After being kicked out of their recording studio, the genre-defying Grenouilles Avenue, for not paying their studio time tab, the recklessness of a couple of jugs of Crimson Shine led to a stretch of debauchery in the destructive sense. A couple of warbling sirens and flashing lights later, the book was thrown at them (though Toruss and Roche escaped significant penalties as both their fathers owned mildly successful shuttle dealerships). Seemingly unperturbed, Mukhop used this opportunity to map out her sonic rebirth. No longer able to trust her now former bandmates, Synestia, named after the forbidden rock prison she toiled within for nearly a decade, became a one-amphibian wrecking crew, unleashing her self-titled, and surprisingly mature post-post-post-new-punk manifesto. Life on Synestia consisted of hard labor and even harder bread. Breaking rocks in the hot sun tends to make the convicted there develop Cranial Alloy Syndrome, the result of bashing one's skull in with the flimsy metal tools distributed to break the aforementioned rocks. While her sentence was on the lighter side, she had the foresight to compartmentalize the painful labor, using the musicality of the torturous rock fields and the tin echo of the Mess Hall to lay out eight tracks of surprisingly restrained melodies. Synestia was a masterclass in capturing solitary nights and dizzying days, her eyes averted from the swirling stars caught up in the vortex of the prison. The album was a hit among the incarcerated and those who felt othered by a system which was stacked against them. The proceeds from the album went directly to the South Quadrant Poverty Law Collective to advocate for those who did not have the means to advocate for themselves and to fight for incarcerated rights in the hope that the system could one day heal instead of harm.


The Night Feeling

Doodle was the affectionate nickname given to the stray rabbit that had found its way inside Electro Lizard, one of the Universe's most famous recording studios. Prickley Pete, Funeral for a Vampire, and Schmog had all played their hearts out in the hallowed halls of the eclectic studio. Doodle, legend had it, escaped a shipping frigate to a processing plant for cosmetic testing, fighting through hell and high water for freedom. Godspeed, as they were known then, had been munching on a crudité platter when they noticed an entire sleeve of carrots had gone missing. In the middle of recording their second album, a demo so dreadful they refused ever to release it, the much-needed break was part nuisance and investigation. Upon finding the dirty thief, they adopted him as a de facto band mascot (based purely on his adorably floppy ears and sunny disposition). Once properly washed of soot and several nasty streaks of orange makeup (which gave him the appearance of the Earth snack "cheese doodles"), it was a passing janitor who ultimately spun the tale of rabbits, and other creatures, who would escape laboratory testing in search of better lives. Godspeed, Little Doodle, as they were now known, had been struck by a creative spark. Doodle became their hero: ten times his normal size, a creased leather jacket, revenge on his mind. Light at the Edge of the Universe is the combination of Doodle's mythos (created by the band) and the story of Nicos Hazinstokas, a liberator of small animals who used a transponder at a deep space lighthouse to tamper with the electronic shock collars of trapped creatures across a vast network, leading to a revolutionary wave against animal servitude (though, the battle was short lived when the freed realized they had no opposable thumbs and therefore could not fire certain weapons properly). Doodle was spared that loss and molded into an antihero, a chiptune on his shoulder, and a sidekick. His name? Twoodle. Light at the Edge of the Universe was the quest for the Aerobeacon, a transmitter that would effectively end intergalactic slavery and lead to prosperity. Through the discovery of Twoodle (who could emit a skin-melting beam of light from his mouth, on command), to the scummy corners of the Volcano Club, this was a sonic journey to find freedom and meaning. Godspeed, Little Doodle, famous for their chiptune artistry, infect this odyssey with their finest, whiniest melodies, throwing us from thumping, club lows, to twirling adventurous highs, all culminating with the Lighthouse itself in the titular finale. While it may have all been bunk (the legends, not the album), it did not matter, dear Audionauts, for the journey is worth it, and, some say, so is the reward.

Fifth Dynasty of the Binary

Cosmic Waveshaper

Aerobeacon

Light at the Edge of the Universe

Consumed By Nature was not only a punishment but a request for normalcy. RUBUS had spent the better part of the early 4600s playing in the confinements of the Universe's busiest cities: Dooqlin, Xervox, New Rewind City, even Ippoldonia. Hailing from the bushy forests of Zefflehim, they longed for the protection of nature, fresher air, and the solitude of partial isolation. The album cover, a depiction of the infamous Two Fates statue covered in vegetation, depicted their modestly popular hometown. It was an enduring tribute to the power of nature, literally consuming the rocky exterior of the fortune tellers who had once corrupted the land, now returned to whence they came. Burdened with spooky synth and a trash-can-like backing track, Consumed By Nature invites listeners into the minds of the Two Fates as they await their punishment, shackled to the ground, begging to be put out of their misery, only for the slow march of nature to take its time. While the A-Side features the stunning suite of the rise and fall of the two witches, the B-Side is the triumphant return of peace to the lands of Zefflehim and what nature can do if left unchecked. RUBUS was eventually granted their wish, building a venue deep in the forest (at the foot of the Fates, no less) to remain in their comfort zone while educating fans and Zefflehimians alike in the gentle balance and truce that we have struck with nature.

A million-to-one-shot. Million-to-one. Prickley Pete had grown peckish during the recording of his latest album, at the time it was slated to be called Company? At This Hour!? What should have been a four-second trip to the vending machine located outside of his studio turned into a 96-hour fight for survival. Little did the ghostly crooner know, but the machine had been coated in an invisible layer of sealant that was poisonous to otherworldly beings. With a stubby arm full of change, Prickley Pete was on his way to Crunch City (his favorite candy bar), however, the fumes from the sealant suddenly made him tired, his blobby body lurching forward and into the vending machine itself, imprisoning him. Unable to free himself, for fear of the debilitating effects of the sealant, Prickley Pete set about redefining himself yet again. The recording equipment was dragged into the hallway while his sonic séance hummed with hissy tape loops, ghostly flomps, and emotional sweetness. To make matters worse, as the artist waited for rescue crews to cut open the vending machine, three bizarre moon phases caused untold damage to the electrical grid, pausing the recording devices with aplomb and imbuing them with an eerie essence that musicians across the Universe Envied. The Fright Album, as we now know it, is built on the back of paranoid ballads, woozy tributes, frog laughter, and an accidental voicemail from Prickley Pete's hometown mayor: Archibald T. Buttersworth-Burlington; all of which was infected with the satisfy crunch of choco clusters, the creamy middles of nougat and caramel, and the aftertaste of artificial berries. The eight tracks that emerged cemented Prickley Pete as king of the hill (though Friendly Neighborhood Ghost and Ghost Town did have the moxie and album sales to hold their own), and as a result, his popularity grew exponentially. After four Earth days trapped in the vending machine, he was finally freed, leading a crusade both for the marketing of The Fright Album but also to help enact legislation that prevents conglomerates from using such deadly and poisonous sealants on their tasty junk food distribution machines. So, dear Audionauts, drop in a few coins, hit the H-H button, and snack on the tasty beats of The Fright Album.

Everybody's Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Marshmallows

Red, blue, yellow. We take them for granted, dear Audionauts. Happy are we to allow the stars of the universe to transmit powerful rays of colorful light, which we then trust our ocular programming to accurately reconstruct and depict. For Acidic (twins Brønsteed and Lowree), color was a form of communication. Their race, the Litmooses, were friendly to a fault, their skin color shading towards their moods, leaving them quite honest but reactionary. Their homeworld flowed with thick rivers of citritus, a harmlessly sour liquid that made travel by vessel extremely difficult, yet also tasty. Navigating these flows was necessary for transit and commerce, and the sluggish pace was the perfect guide for those looking to take a step back from their lives and marvel at the planet as they slogged from south to north. Working on one such voyage, the crew of their crude oil tanker threw themselves a party (for they were about to dock and receive their long overdue pay). However, there was no entertainment to accompany the libations, and the fellas were getting restless. Brønsteed and Lowree, who had maintained a penchant for music from their youth, hopped to the front of the mess hall and proceeded to bang out a setlist worth of professional tasty beats, pleading the drunkards and fools to bop and toe-tap until all hours of the morning. Because of their fellow Litmooses' glowing skin, they used the colors of their audiences' enthusiasm to change tempos, melodies, and keys, locking onto exactly what they wanted to listen to with little to no filler. What was a surprise to the vessel was an event that was a bigger shock to Acidic itself: could they leave behind the back-breaking work of their homeworld and ascend into the stars? Yes, dear Audionauts, yes, they could. RBY is a recreation of that fateful setlist (within reason, as several spoken word interludes were cut not only for time but for their profanity). With help in the studio, and additional vetting by fellow Litmooses, RBY became fan service in the best possible way: eight tasty tunes fit not only for the hull of an oil tanker, but the biggest stages in the Universe. As sludgy and slow-moving as the citritus rivers, the music takes on the cooling tones of blue, the electric yellows, and the stomping-mad reds that Litmooses were known for and quantifies them to a satisfying menu. Tune in, drop out, taste the rainbow.

Hyperion

Maxim

Bricks, Grenades, Whatever!

The Propeller Song

Good Girl

Look Out Below

RUFF

March of the Briar Wolves

Chamber of Sin

Lord of Shadows

Hallowed Ground

Beyond the Safety of the Moon

Rotting Coven

The Endless Bleeding Fields

Request

The Intergalactic Beets Project captures real beats from across the universe, presses them to vinyl, and issues them for all creatures to listen to.

The Intergalactic Beets Project

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