With Pizza Bear laying dormant for decades and Honey Bear obsessing over her second album (though it was never released), the gap in bear beatmakers had swelled from a crack to a canyon. Enter Beans. Orphaned when he was just a cub, he too drew on the inspiration of New Bear City, not of the dizzying highs but of the scummy lows. The southern neighborhoods of NBC were often coated in a mist, the sun rarely shining due to the pollution pouring forth from factories making cheap knock-offs of well-known products. Here, the rain was not a weather event but a guarantee, a soggy neighbor who would not stop borrowing your stuff. Beans did not seek the shelter of the streets, which the citizens often did (illegal substances, gambling, crime, and the like). Instead, Beans filled his time with studies, novels, and the excitement of ragged comic books. These worlds sheltered him from disappointment and allowed him to create a version of himself that he thought he could never become. Beans, as we know him, has returned to the City that made him, but he is not a prodigal son; he is a force of change. Looking into the heavens, he counted the rhythm of the rain and formed the basis of Toy Glory in his head. With the help of his computer, he tapped away at a keyboard, fully aware that his understanding of music composition was limited. With time, frustration, and the beats in his brain, his debut album was born. Harrowing as it is toe-tapping, this was the other side of the New Bear City coin. While Pizza Bear had lived for the moment, Beans lived to survive. Within is the fuzzy warble of passing cars, the driving, twinkling rain, and the heartbeat that drove the beatmaker through the smog and into the heavens above. Toy Glory symbolizes his need to regain his confidence after being thrown away as a young cub, and the essence of this sadness permeates the album. Sharing in his misery was a cure, not the poison, and listeners went bonkers for the album, outpacing production. Beans did not go on to have a storied career (his next album flopped due to production issues which replaced the drum tracks with the sound of him eating cheese doodles), but his influence is still felt in the southern reaches of New Bear City.

You've Got An Enemy

The parasitic, invasive spore known as Aethelthryth III lived under the shadows of their forbearers Aethelthryth I and Aethelthryth II, both megastars in their own right, but where A-I and A-II had the advantage of having spawned in the vessel of two already talented musicians, it was A-III who was birthed in the unsuspecting body of an astronaut who had already filed for retirement. With resources mostly drained from the flesh, A-III needed to work quickly. Rather than manipulate the aging astronaut, attempt to learn how to play music, and make strides to complete an album, A-III made their appearance during the astronaut's retirement photoshoot, exploding forth from his neck and offering a terrifying, thorny smile that, while attempting to appear friendly, caused an undeniable panic. With the astronaut dead but A-III very much alive, they used their leafy appendages to puppeteer the astronaut to the nearest LibroTron to begin the painstaking process of absorbing music theory and millennia's worth of beats. Because of their rather unorthodox entrance, A-III was sealed within the astronaut's quarters (welded, duct-taped, and superglued), so, in essence, there was time. However, while they feasted on the meaty remains to stay attentive, a limited amount of nutrients was left before A-III would need additional sustenance (or a keyboard or two) to continue its musical mission. Fattened, stronger, and, for all intents and purposes, smarter, A-III made quick work of the precautionary restraints that had fastened the door, the automated smart-gun sentries, and the sleepy crew members who had vowed to take varying shifts until the creature had perished of its own accord. Fearing that their investment had been lost, the financiers of the mostly scientific vessel decided to scuttle the ship with a series of timed explosives. With the coordinates locked in, and the threat of further annihilation on the precipice of being squashed, a halt code screamed across all the open channels, insisting listeners tune to the tasty beats pulsating from the zombified ship. A-III had used its thorny appendages to grab any and all loose tools and equipment to bang out an eight-track Hail Mary. Clanging, rhymical, hollow, and haunting, H.O.S.T. was as much a war cry as it was a cry for help. A-III could not help its station; the unsuspecting astronaut, unfortunately, consumed the spores of its creation as they had frantically escaped the mutated vegetation's homeworld. Would the mothership have the courage to prevent the spread, or would they embrace the infectiousness of A-III's genre-defying beats? Well, dear Audionauts, I believe we can safely say that the unforgettable album cover and the lasting effects of H.O.S.T. are still felt today, although allowing A-III to leave unscathed turned out to be a massive, ignorant decision. With time, A-III engorged itself with the innocents in its path, gaining more musical knowledge than we dare to speculate. However, access to this information did not lead to an increase in creativity. A-III's sophomore album did little to ignite the charts (though, mostly due to seven of the eight tracks consisting of munching and eating noises). H.O.S.T., however, will stand as a testament to tenacity, an unwilling, drone-like sentience that lifted A-III, dare we say, from the pit to the pinnacle, replacing A-I and A-II in the annals of parasitic, invasive, spore-based beats.

Mass Of Spora

Loneliness, we can all relate, dear Audionauts. The counting of petals does not do much to satisfy the yearning, whether that be for a sense of place, purpose, or potential. Alienation, they call it, and the nom de guerre of perpetually lonely and double-jointed (we'll get back to that), Nedley Femtome. A member of the Uorescene Galaxy, no single species like Nedley existed. Abandoned at birth, his biological ancestors were nowhere to be found, not a photograph, an etching, a recording, just silence in the void. Because of the lack of classification, Nedley's species became colloquially known as Unks or Unknowns. Saddled with this burden, Nedley was a shy creature, not one to speak out, picked on, surely, by classmates who gawked at his height despite his age and the way in which his limbs gyrated in their double-jointed sockets, giving him the appearance of a ratchet noisemaker. One such incident at Qualifying School XXI left him sobbing in the nearest waste receptacle stall, his spinning limbs and high-pitched moaning emanating like a synthesizer from his mouth. A concerned teacher, fearing that a bomb was counting down to some inevitable catastrophe, pounded on the stall door, demanding to know what was happening. But it was just Nedley, sad and lonely. At the time, the educator who found him had been known as Farghut Bertoosis, a similarly, near-extinct creature of the Bertoo clan of eight-foot-tall, blue-haired, ogre-like mammals. Today, we know him as Colonel Snow Barkman, a ruthless and uncompromising concert promoter with a knack for scooping up young talent and bleeding them dry. Nedley was the first of his victims, encouraging him to use his unique singing style to record an album in which his spinning appendages could accompany him as his band, his vocal cords replacing the synthesizer entirely. And, dear Audionauts, it worked. Save Our Ship, as much a call for help as a masterclass in lonely melodies, was an immediate smash hit, connecting with creatures across the Universe who also felt alone. But, there was hope, for Save Our Ship's message was not merely the beauty of solitude but the hunt for family, home, and purpose. That connection sealed the album's status and rocketed poor Nedley into another dimension, promising he would never be lonely when his fans were at his doorstep, begging to enter. Colonel Snow, though, had other plans for his young apprentice, slowly siphoning money from his young protégé to cover his gambling debts and serious drinking problem (Pork Soda was his preferred poison). He pushed Nedley to tour constantly, refusing to allow him to record new music, fearing that he would not be able to replicate the success of Save Our Ship. Justice came for Colonel Snow several decades later when a string of allegations upended his business model, and evidence was able to put him behind laser bars for good. Unfortunately for us, Nedley took his own life just a few years after achieving fame, leaving behind one of the largest what-ifs in the Intergalactic Beets Catalog. We still mourn the loss of one of the loneliest creatures in the galaxy, who, for a brief time, made it acceptable to share, acceptable to listen, and acceptable to turn those emotions into some of the tastiest beats in the Universe.

Heart(s)break

Dawdle, fresh off of her 2243 album Playing Dead, had excused herself from public life, seeking shelter in the Northern Hemisphere of Akerwood, where deciduous trees are plentiful, and the leaf-peeping is beyond reproach. Nestled into her hollowed treehouse, Dawdle was content to pass the time in solitude, taking up hiking in the mornings, tea in the afternoon, and delicious cheese plates at night. It was here that she escaped the chaos of her sudden fame. Playing Dead was a breakout hit in a sleepy-toned field, elevating it above the monikers that the Relaxercise Movement had self-imposed. Fearing that the masses would demand too much of her, she crept to Akerwood and decided to hide herself away for the time being. Maybe music would never percolate inside her brain, but her decision to bring her synthesizer and electronic drum kit was just one of the many signs that a follow-up was just around the corner. Without Purpose or Direction was a cathartic balance of anxiety and bliss. Based upon the directionless walks she would take through the forest, the album shocked fans with her evolutionary turn. Not unheard of, but most artists are stuck in the mire of their style. Dawdle was adamant about building upon her foundation on Playing Dead, employing her dreamy and bright tones with distorted drumbeats and thumping, hidden basslines. Without Purpose or Direction, however, did not save her from the forest, per se, she made it her permanent home and, in a disappointing move, cancelled any hopes of future touring. The decision was twofold: first, to maintain her secluded lifestyle, and second, to allow her to continue creating music without pressure. The trees captured what would have otherwise pushed her to abandon her creativity and inspired her through the sneaky beams of light and the wistful, falling leaves. Without Purpose or Direction is a masterclass in transporting the listener right into the cozy inner sanctum she worked so hard to build, and one would be hard-pressed to find another home as welcoming and as tasty as the beats within.

Wandering

Bloom never shied away from their interests and obsessions. Moonshine was another in a series of flora-focused albums highlighting the indescribable process of growing by strict moonlight. A hobby for not merely the night owls and owlets but a lucrative industry with its own set of heroes and villains. Bloom, hot off their 2968 album Pesky Buds, had taken it upon themselves to enlist the help of some botanists who were adept at growing plants known for their psycho-reactive properties. After wasting the profits from the album and getting no closer to their dream, it was time to get back into the studio. Moonshine did not come overnight. However, it wasn't until the cost-effective method was pitched to the financially reeling band that the concept became clear. With some startup cash, their investment could triple in just a few months. The plan was simple, purchase land on LW-419, which was orbited by a large moon mass, saw the sun for only six days a year, and grow varieties of lunas cannabaceae (blue, purple, red, yellow, etc.) which flowered and bloomed only in the intense overlord-like gaze of a moon. It seemed simple enough, a proven method with a desired product and, to boot, a concept for a tasty menagerie of beats. Off to LW-419 flew their money, and into the studio shambled Bloom. Moonshine proved to be a landmark album once it was complete: a buzzing, synth-heavy blossoming of the band that dug their hands into the dirt and, for once, got themselves dirty. The beats were crunchy, whimsical, enchanting, the perfect companion to the inebriating smoke produced by lunas cannabaceae or Moonshine, as it was colloquially referred to. With the album already at the presses, Bloom took it upon themselves to visit LW-419 to check in on the status of their investment. Only LW-419 did not exist. It never had. The ruse had been perpetrated by the equally inebriated, the funds lost to space, hopefully well spent. Devastated, and with the album the only lifeline they had, Bloom bet the pot and prayed that Moonshine would someone penetrate even the most remote turntables. Luckily, for us, and Bloom, Moonshine is as ubiquitous as the stars, a triumph of production and construction, it became a bible for some. Why, you may ask, dear Audionaut? Because, unbeknownst to Bloom, plants loved the album. Harvests became heartier, tastes became euphoric, it was a fertilizer without the pesticide, and every creature in the universe now had a secret weapon in their fight against forgetting to water their shuttle plants. Unfortunately, the Plant Wars (both I and II) would place the blame squarely on Bloom for their negligence. Still, as far as we are concerned, the healing power of music was on full display, saving not only the budding friends on our window sills but Bloom as well, who would go on to release three more albums (though they gradually turned away from their original obsession to focus on fauna as well).

From The Ground Up

Slugs had had their heyday in the 4390s, a festive reawakening of freedom, heavy narcotic use, and love abound. While the Free Love Wars of the early 4400s put a swift end to that way of enrichment, you cannot keep a good movement down. Slugs, for all intents and purposes, were quite useless as a species. Mostly originating from the Gulgoli Galaxy, these slimy, legless, multi-eyed creatures were susceptible to most universal truths: sunlight, water, and salt. Interested and fearless partakers would attach the creatures to their heads, from the top of the forehead to the base of the back of the neck (if one had a neck). The mucus excretions were highly toxic, and the head, a fantastically absorbent body area, accepted the goo for all it was worth. Dizzying highs of astral projections danced in front of the user's eyes. At the same time, the sensation of floating gave the body a buoyant lift that eliminated the aches and pains of sore joints and fatigued muscles. The side effects, of which there were virtually none, in no way outweighed the creative juice that surged within those who had become "sluggards." This creative and somewhat liberal wave gave birth to the Sluggard Period, in which bands recorded whole albums under the influence. Legendary acts such as Fultina and the Bent Pennies, Pentox Impenatrox, and Kjirkaal's Khippies lived and died by the high. But, as we mentioned earlier, dear Audionauts, the Free Love Wars had stopped these tasty beats. It was not until one hundred years later that Slughead, fresh on the scene with a pocket full of slugs, took the Sluggard Period to new highs. Playing live with slugs attached to their heads, they had achieved almost immortal status: the ability to perform while under the influence and, most surprisingly, remain absolutely true to the album versions of their songs. What goes around, comes around, and Sciagraph was the long-lost child of the Sluggard forbearers. Oozing with intensity and a heavy metallic rhythm section, Slughead was destined to rank among the best. However, in a somewhat ironic twist of fate, they succumbed to a rash of irradiated slugs. Having purchased the slugs on the black market, it was unclear where they were being harvested. This final batch has been bred near a toxic waste dump, infecting the poor creatures with radiation beyond the level of consumption. Slughead did not get a chance to say their farewells after their tour manager found them in their hotel room, unresponsive. Sciagraph lives on as a what-could-have-been, both for the budding young stars and the Sluggard Period, which, despite renewed interest, failed to gain any traction. Their lives might have been the cost, but Slughead's tasty beats still fight onward, inspiring, perhaps, a new generation to take up arms in the fight for Free Love.

Irradiated Sluggard

Like many bands in the Intergalactic Beets Project, stars play a significant role in the day-to-day lives of the creatures of the Universe. Whether for growing food, nourishing bodies, or collecting energy, its never-ending supply of uses is a testament to its construction and our ability to harness it. Except when the sun is poisonous, of course. For Flaming Globes of Sigmund, the much reviled and titular Sigmund was a source of pain. Sigmund referred to Dr. Maralutia Sigmund, an absolutely insane scientist whose quest to control the two suns nearest the planet Kruuger III led to a rogue spaceship crashing into the larger of the two giants (nicknamed Big Happy). Onboard was a deadly poison which infected the outpouring of formerly healing rays, infecting its smaller sibling Little Meany. Kruuger III bore the brunt of the horrible infection of the poison rays, driving the populace underground, among them, the members of Flaming Globes of Sigmund. An Impending Sense of Doom is a giant middle-tentacle to Dr. Sigmund and his selfish act (he was ultimately shot in the very sun he infected), a blistering 30 minutes of angry, vitriolic beats, until the closing track, Little Suns. Here is where hope springs, where new technology introduces the concepts of the “little suns.” Artificial sources of light that successfully neutralized the poison of Big Happy and Little Meany, opening the very crust of the Kruuger III and allowing the denizens to return. An Impending Sense of Doom is about the anticipation of annihilation, and the jubilation of relief, told through the fuzzy melodies and slick backbeats that Flaming Globes of Sigmund would utilize until, as they tell it, “the lights go out.”

Little Suns

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

CTRL Void marks my first release - a statement of intent and an exploration of absence through sound.

The track drifts through layers of resonance, filtered stabs, spatial delay, and a low-end pulse that never fully resolves. It’s hypnotic, restrained, and deliberately hollow — like a system glitch looping in silence.

This is the sound of letting go of control — or realising it never existed.

CTRL + void

This track  was all about experimenting with the dreamy pads, driving bassline, and C-tuned guitar. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Follow me on Instagram: www.instagram.com/micahkcarlson

Starved

Veil of Echoes — Downtempo / Chillout / Psybient / Chillgressive — 120 BPM

At the heart of Veil of Echoes lies a raw field recording captured in a bustling market in Chefchaouen, Morocco. Voices, footsteps, and everyday sounds form the backbone of the track, layered with deep basslines, tribal percussion, and shimmering synths. Rather than a sample in the background, this recording is the living pulse that runs throughout the entire piece.

The track also features the Zaghareet — the iconic ululation heard at celebrations across North Africa and the Middle East — appearing before the drops to evoke joy, unity, and cultural spirit.

Written and produced on rooftops above the medina, Veil of Echoes flows between spacious ambient breakdowns and hypnotic, driving sections. It’s a 120 BPM journey where organic Moroccan soundscapes meet electronic precision — equally suited for late-night sets or deep listening.

For fans of downtempo, psybient, chillgressive, organic electronic, and tribal-inspired beats, this track captures both the atmosphere of Chefchaouen and the energy of its people.

📍 Inspired by: Chefchaouen, Morocco — market field recordings & Zaghareet
🔊 BPM: 120

Veil of Echoes

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