Tommi Tokyo and Sayaka Botanic play pinball on your synapses with the body-sparking metal dance jabs of their eponymous debut as Group A for Mannequin. Over the last few years the duo have built up cult acclaim thru a tight handful of self-released CDrs and tapes and their incendiary live shows in Tokyo and more recently Berlin, which they now call home, bringing them to their first record proper.
A-side is given to the zinging bullet train momentum of T.O.P., where they hammer out a martial tattoo of drum machines, shark-toothed 16th note arpeggios and robotic vocals which, rather brilliantly, work at the intended 45rpm for brisk pacing, or at 33rpm +8, if you’re that way inclined. Think Factory Floor meet radioactive buttplugs.
B-side, they channel that energy into something like a distant, numbed echo of The Neon Judgement’s The Fashion Party with illegible vocals delivered by an 8-bit gremlin, then trap your swede in a maze of psychotomimetic delays to emulate the most intense nitrous buzz of yer lyf.
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Tommi Tokyo and Sayaka Botanic play pinball on your synapses with the body-sparking metal dance jabs of their eponymous debut as Group A for Mannequin. Over the last few years the duo have built up cult acclaim thru a tight handful of self-released CDrs and tapes and their incendiary live shows in Tokyo and more recently Berlin, which they now call home, bringing them to their first record proper.
A-side is given to the zinging bullet train momentum of T.O.P., where they hammer out a martial tattoo of drum machines, shark-toothed 16th note arpeggios and robotic vocals which, rather brilliantly, work at the intended 45rpm for brisk pacing, or at 33rpm +8, if you’re that way inclined. Think Factory Floor meet radioactive buttplugs.
B-side, they channel that energy into something like a distant, numbed echo of The Neon Judgement’s The Fashion Party with illegible vocals delivered by an 8-bit gremlin, then trap your swede in a maze of psychotomimetic delays to emulate the most intense nitrous buzz of yer lyf.
Tommi Tokyo and Sayaka Botanic play pinball on your synapses with the body-sparking metal dance jabs of their eponymous debut as Group A for Mannequin. Over the last few years the duo have built up cult acclaim thru a tight handful of self-released CDrs and tapes and their incendiary live shows in Tokyo and more recently Berlin, which they now call home, bringing them to their first record proper.
A-side is given to the zinging bullet train momentum of T.O.P., where they hammer out a martial tattoo of drum machines, shark-toothed 16th note arpeggios and robotic vocals which, rather brilliantly, work at the intended 45rpm for brisk pacing, or at 33rpm +8, if you’re that way inclined. Think Factory Floor meet radioactive buttplugs.
B-side, they channel that energy into something like a distant, numbed echo of The Neon Judgement’s The Fashion Party with illegible vocals delivered by an 8-bit gremlin, then trap your swede in a maze of psychotomimetic delays to emulate the most intense nitrous buzz of yer lyf.
Tommi Tokyo and Sayaka Botanic play pinball on your synapses with the body-sparking metal dance jabs of their eponymous debut as Group A for Mannequin. Over the last few years the duo have built up cult acclaim thru a tight handful of self-released CDrs and tapes and their incendiary live shows in Tokyo and more recently Berlin, which they now call home, bringing them to their first record proper.
A-side is given to the zinging bullet train momentum of T.O.P., where they hammer out a martial tattoo of drum machines, shark-toothed 16th note arpeggios and robotic vocals which, rather brilliantly, work at the intended 45rpm for brisk pacing, or at 33rpm +8, if you’re that way inclined. Think Factory Floor meet radioactive buttplugs.
B-side, they channel that energy into something like a distant, numbed echo of The Neon Judgement’s The Fashion Party with illegible vocals delivered by an 8-bit gremlin, then trap your swede in a maze of psychotomimetic delays to emulate the most intense nitrous buzz of yer lyf.
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Tommi Tokyo and Sayaka Botanic play pinball on your synapses with the body-sparking metal dance jabs of their eponymous debut as Group A for Mannequin. Over the last few years the duo have built up cult acclaim thru a tight handful of self-released CDrs and tapes and their incendiary live shows in Tokyo and more recently Berlin, which they now call home, bringing them to their first record proper.
A-side is given to the zinging bullet train momentum of T.O.P., where they hammer out a martial tattoo of drum machines, shark-toothed 16th note arpeggios and robotic vocals which, rather brilliantly, work at the intended 45rpm for brisk pacing, or at 33rpm +8, if you’re that way inclined. Think Factory Floor meet radioactive buttplugs.
B-side, they channel that energy into something like a distant, numbed echo of The Neon Judgement’s The Fashion Party with illegible vocals delivered by an 8-bit gremlin, then trap your swede in a maze of psychotomimetic delays to emulate the most intense nitrous buzz of yer lyf.