The most recent OG files (mid-2023) show an artist in transition. After "Unholy"'s success, many Feed the Beast tracks were swapped last-minute. The leaks include "Knockoff" (a diss track aimed at imitation artists), "Gag on It" (later repurposed as a brief interlude, but the full OG file is pure filth over a Jersey club beat), and "Stars Are Blind (Studio Cover)" – a full, faithful cover of the Paris Hilton classic, produced by Vaughn Oliver, that has no business being as good as it is.
First, let's decode the title. "OG Files" stands for Original Generation files. In leak terminology, an OG file is the highest possible quality tier of unreleased music. It means:
The "117x" refers to the final confirmed count after duplicates and instrumentals were sorted—a staggering 117 unique vocal tracks, spanning from her earliest Prodculture days (circa 2015-2016) up to sessions for her scrapped 2022 album and early 2023 Feed the Beast outtakes.
"Get ready for the most epic leak ever! 'Kim Petras Unreleased -117x Tracks With OG Fi...' is making rounds and we can't help but speculate about the treasure trove of music that might be hidden within. With Kim Petras' history of pushing boundaries in the music industry, these unreleased tracks could offer a fascinating glimpse into her creative process and artistic evolution. Whether it's an early demo or a completely new genre-bending hit, the anticipation is building up!"
The file arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, buried in an anonymous USB that smelled faintly of ozone. Mikaela found it on the bench behind the vintage record shop where she worked; someone had propped open the back door and left a paper bag with two cassettes, a Polaroid, and the flash drive. The Polaroid showed a rooftop at dusk, neon bleeding into glass. On the back, in careful script: 117x.
She plugged the drive into the shop computer because curiosity was the only thing that could make her dreary afternoon sparkle. A folder named "OG Fi" blinked into being. Inside: dozens of files, each tagged "-117x" and dated in a pattern that made no sense—some with years, others just numbers: 001, 037, 117. The first file she opened was a voice memo: a delicate, impossible vocal, like someone walking barefoot across a glass piano. A name lingered in the harmonics—Kim—but that could be any name, or none at all.
Mikaela always loved things that felt like puzzles. She dumped the contents onto her old mixing board, fingers itching. The tracks were rough, candid—breath at the start of a chorus, laughter in a verse, a producer's voice whispering "again, softer." The music didn't want to be polished; it wanted to be remembered. There were traces of late-night sessions, cigarettes in coffee mugs, and a persistent, gentle defiance threaded through every bar.
Word travels fast when it's fed by whispers. By the next evening, the shop's backroom was full: a college DJ with sleeves of band patches, a retired radio host with a memory for obscure hooks, and Lena—the owner of the rooftop from the Polaroid—who had once ran lights for queer club nights downtown. They listened in the dim, faces lit by monitors and the glow of the streetlamp outside.
"This is unreleased?" the DJ asked, like he already knew the answer but wanted the sound of someone else saying it aloud. Kim Petras Unreleased -117x Tracks With OG Fi...
"No label, no metadata," Lena said. "But these vocal takes... they're raw. Whoever recorded this didn't think anyone would hear it."
They called the collection "117x" because the label repeated everywhere: scrawled on notes, stamped on a weathered notebook, hidden in a photo frame. It felt like a ghost sign—something left to be found.
The tracks became a rumor that grew teeth. People came to the shop to trade stories: an ex-engineer who swore one session had been the evening an important promise was made and then broken; a drag performer who hummed the chorus like a prayer; a street artist who painted quick, neon portraits while the songs looped in her headphones. They all claimed the music did one thing in common: it made them honest.
As the weeks passed, Mikaela noticed patterns. The unfinished bridges hinted at different directions—one raw vocal over ambient synth, another melody leaning toward a disco bassline. Hidden between the takes were messages, tiny vocal fragments that weren't lyrics so much as notes to a future self: "breathe," "start over," "tell them." Whoever had recorded the files had left scaffolding for songs that never had the chance to stand fully formed.
They debated what to do. Release them? Keep them secret? Sell them to the highest bidder? The shop's backroom had all the urgency of a courtroom delivering a verdict. Some argued that music belonged to listeners; others insisted unreleased tracks were private, like letters never meant to be read.
Mikaela had an answer that felt right to her: curate, not expose. She began with gentle edits—no auto-tune, no headline-grabbing reveals—just rebalancing levels and stitching a few takes into coherent pieces that honored the original breath and the blemishes. She assembled a short cassette: five tracks, collaged from different 117x files, and stamped a single word on the J-card: OG.
They distributed twenty copies, slipped into hands at midnight sets, taped to lampposts, and tucked into record sleeves at shows. Each cassette traveled like contraband in the city's pockets and jackets, seeded across neighborhoods. People who found a copy treated it like a message meant for their ear alone. Bars played it at last calls; rooftop parties folded its choruses into the night. It did what music is supposed to—made strangers feel less alone.
Not long after, a private message arrived on the shop's burner number. No longer anonymous, the sender wrote in fragments—thank you, be careful, don't sell. They signed only with a small star: *. The message said nothing about ownership. It was neither claim nor plea. It read like the relief of someone who had finally heard a piece of themselves acknowledged. The most recent OG files (mid-2023) show an
The tracks kept migrating. In basements and late-shift diners, people hummed the odd phrasing that had once been an abandoned bridge. A lyric tattooed itself onto a protest sign. A queer collective used a loop as the backbone of a benefit mix. The songs, once orphaned, folded into other people's stories.
Months later, when winter softened and the rooftop in the Polaroid was dusted with the first pale snow, Mikaela climbed up and laid the Polaroid on the ledge where the city could see it. She thought about secrets and stewardship and the permission to make music into something that saved you, if only for three minutes and forty-two seconds. She thought about the people who had left pieces of a life in a folder named 117x, trusting the world to find the right ears.
Someone called down from the street below as she descended. "Hey—did you ever find out who OG Fi is?"
She smiled, the kind that happens when a melody resolves itself finally, quietly. "Some songs don't need a name," she called back. "They just need someone to listen."
The tracks kept circulating—unclaimed, unmistakable, alive. And every time a new listener pressed play, a small unfinished thing finished a little more, until it belonged everywhere and nobody at once.
The phenomenon of the Kim Petras "117x Tracks" leak represents one of the largest security breaches in modern pop history, offering a rare, unfiltered look into the massive creative output of an artist navigating the "limbo" of the major label system. The Context of the "Limbo" Era
The leak, which began circulating heavily around 2022, primarily stems from the shelving of Petras' original debut album, Problématique. Following the success of her "Era 1" singles, Kim was signed to Republic Records, but creative differences and management hurdles kept her new music from being authorized for release. This period of frustration led Petras to famously tweet that she was "devastated" and felt "f—ed" by the industry. The Scale of the Leak: "117x Tracks"
The "117x" collection refers to a specific massive dump of data that surfaced in fan communities, containing not just finished songs but Original Files (OG Files), including: The "117x" refers to the final confirmed count
Kim Petras to Surprise Drop New Album 'Problematique' - Billboard
The world of unreleased pop music just hit a major milestone for Bunheads everywhere. Recently, a massive collection titled "Kim Petras Unreleased - 117x Tracks With OG Files" surfaced online, offering an unprecedented deep dive into the vault of the pop icon. This isn't just a handful of snippets; it’s a comprehensive look at the creative journey behind some of Petras' most celebrated and scrapped eras. What’s in the Vault?
The leak is staggering in both quantity and quality. Featuring 117 tracks—many in their original high-quality "OG" file formats—it spans years of production. Key highlights from the collection include:
The Scrapped Eras: Tracks rumored to be from the legendary Candy and the original Problématique sessions before it was reworked for its eventual 2023 release.
High-Fidelity "OG" Files: Unlike low-quality snippets or radio rips, many of these are studio-quality files, allowing fans to hear the intricate production work of collaborators like Aaron Joseph and Vaughn Oliver in full detail.
Rare Demos: Early versions of hits like "Choker" and "Dirty Dirty" (dating back to 2015) alongside recent unreleased gems like "California Rain" and "Dark Hearts". Why This Matters Now
This massive leak arrives at a turning point in Petras' career. In early 2026, Kim Petras publicly expressed frustration with her label, Republic Records, claiming they were withholding her completed third album, Detour. She has since formally requested to be dropped from the label to pursue independent releases.
While the leak isn't official, it has reignited conversations about artist autonomy and the sheer volume of high-caliber work currently sitting in "label limbo". For fans, these 117 tracks serve as a "Pretour" of sorts, showcasing the diverse sounds—from bubbly synth-pop to edgy club beats—that Kim has been crafting behind the scenes.
The "117x tracks" collection consists of unreleased songs from Kim Petras , notably stemming from the scrapped Problématique
eras that leaked in 2022. These high-quality files and demos, featuring projects in legal limbo, circulated widely after the artist encouraged fans to listen to them. Problématique | Kim Petras Wiki