The Intergalactic Beets Project

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

Drugs. Powerful, delicious drugs. The good kind, we mean. The life-saving, medically necessary ones. Not those evil ones that will make you see the Universe in a day and stretch time and space to their zenith, only to transport you to the end of an alley, your head between your hooves, retching with the might of a zuurlix in heat. Those types were reserved for the wicked, those led astray from society, with nothing but bad memories and usually a worse father figure. Pizza Bear never knew his parents, for they had passed away during a carjacking, which not only ruined the fine leather seats but also the trajectory of their son. Taken in by his Uncle and living in a basement apartment beneath his pawn shop, Pizza Bear saw all too well the effects of drugs on his community. After hitting a grand slam with Grizzly Bear, Pizza Bear sought to right some of the systemic wrongs of New Bear City, culminating in the masterpiece that is B.E.A.R. or Bearish Experts in Awesome Riffs. Using the power of music, Pizza Bear created a network of community organizations dedicated to getting cubs off the streets and into beats. The wealth he had amassed as a Universal superstar was put to good use, subsidizing new instruments, paying instructors living wages, and keeping the lights on in NBC's historic neighborhoods. Setting aside his own beefs, he welcomed Honey Bear and Beans into his music-centric community, urging them, too, to give back to the city that had carried them on their shoulders. So popular were the classes that waitlists began to choke their website's servers. Pizza Bear needed more money, and fast. Now, B.E.A.R.'s immediacy was not necessarily a cash grab; upon this tasty album are eight of Pizza Bear's most introspective and funky tunes. Inspired not only by the cubs taking advantage of his program, but by the people who were transformed by the willingness of the youngest generation to enact real change. B.E.A.R. is the blueprint to a new New Bear City, one that homogenizes in harmony and lifts up the lowest with strength and without fear. Fuzzy bass lines and almost techno-like melodies show an energy and bravado that Pizza Bear rarely let his fans see. It is confidence and hope, wrapped up once again in the city that refuses to settle into its own gutter, whacked out on the delicious power of drugs. Pizza Bear's musical mentorship classes still exist today, proving that music always rises above the uncertain landscapes...just make sure you can stay on beat.

Truth or Bear?

With the intergalactic ban on music, that seethed its way across airwaves on July 6th, 5000 (0000 AM), so with it went the art of talk radio. Now, you might be asking yourself, dear Audionaut, with so much at stake, and the tastiest of beats no longer available, should talk radio be given an ounce of respect? For, without beats, what was radio really? Well, without passing judgment to the opposite side of the dial, there was little to be excited about. Weather reports, traffic updates, forced banter among silly morning "zoo crews." It was a silent mess of dead air and even more lifeless entertainers. So, too, did it perish (with some applauding the death) while others rose in the ashes of the old guard. Radio was a central place of worship, but the hymns were random. What if we could control radio and tailor it to specific listeners? Born from the black hole left by Lord Prosect were the Auscults, a race of content-obsessed creatures ready to jam anything into the ears of those who had even the faintest of interest. From famous intergalactic court battles, to unsolved mysteries, to the latest dishes on Murmple VII, if there was a topic the Auscults would cover it. In their infinite wisdom, they recognized the power of music and how a theme song or bed could make or break their "intermissions." The most popular of these broadcasts was Cerealized an intermission dedicated to sugary breakfast foods: ranking them, eating them, yelling epithets at them, smelling them. So popular was the series that breakfast behemoth conglomerate Fhilo Oil and Waste Management had to increase production of their Rainbow Whorls to not one, not two, but fourteen new production stations scattered across twelve different solar systems. But, dear Audionauts, the key to Cerealized was not just the high calorie count and massive carbohydrate overload, but the even tastier beats that accompanied each episode. Clever were the Auscults to hide music within their intermissions, defining the intergalactic ban. Culled from various artists like Med Evil, Electric Shadow Puppets, and Ghenga Akkahana, the album delivered fresh bowls of cereal with a massive splash of music. While it became somewhat of a collectors item, highlighting the obsessive nature of the intermissions, it was sadly lost to Lord Prosect and his minions until the Intergalactic Beets Project ordered a crate of Rainbow Whorls, only to discover a single copy within. We present this album to you now, with the intent to enjoy every last morsel while it lasts!

Theme Song to Episode 8X71Y1 "Spoonfed"

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.

An Incident on the Western Front

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