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

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

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

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

Starved

Restricted

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

Introspection

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