Pete's Expert Summary
So, my human, in their infinite and often questionable wisdom, has procured what appears to be a blue, plastic tadpole with a severe glandular problem. They call it an "Otamatone," a synthesizer from Japan that supposedly makes "music." From my vantage point on the velvet chaise, it looks like a tool for generating noise by stroking its neck and squeezing its face—an act that I find both barbaric and intriguing. The promise of low, medium, and high pitches suggests a spectrum of potential annoyance. While the portability is utterly irrelevant to me (I have staff to manage my transportation), the high-pitched wails it will inevitably produce could be a powerful new tool for signaling my displeasure around meal times. It's either a migraine-inducing waste of plastic or the greatest attention-grabbing device ever conceived. The jury is still out.
Key Features
- JAPAN'S FAVORITE - One of Japan's most loved musical instrument portable synthesizer toy with more than 30 designs, sold globally, and enjoyed by all ages.
- FUN & EASY TO PLAY - Touch or Slide Your Fingers Along The Stem to Vary The Pitch and Squeeze The Cheeks for Vibrato. Play in a low, medium, or high pitch - get together with friends and create a harmony!
- UNLEASH YOUR CREATIVITY - Express yourself and explore new musical possibilities by creating your very own sounds! Have fun singing and playing along with family and friends at home or outdoors - the lightweight, portable Otamatone is the perfect instrument to bring camping to accompany your campfire singalongs!
- GREAT FOR ALL AGES - Kids, teens, and adults all love the Otamatone! Whether you’re brand new to music or an expert musician, the Otamatone offers a fun, silly new way to make music!
- QUICK AND EASY SETUP - AAA Batteries ×3 Operated (Battery NOT included). Simply turn it on, and you're ready to play! Its compact size (Approximately 10.6" or 27 cm) makes it perfect for travel and music on the move!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The thing arrived in a box, which, for a moment, was the most exciting part of my day. I'd barely finished my preliminary sniff-down when the human tore it open, revealing the blue creature within. There was some fumbling with batteries, a ritual of incompetence I've come to expect, and then it began. The first sound was a strangled, electronic wail that made my whiskers vibrate with sympathetic agony. The human, bless their simple heart, thought this was hilarious. They slid their finger up and down the creature's neck, producing a glissando of pure, unadulterated torment that sounded like a digital soul being slowly exorcised from its plastic shell. They squeezed its rubbery cheeks, and the wail trembled with a vibrato of deep suffering. It was not music. It was a cry for help. For ten minutes, I was subjected to this auditory assault. A "concert," the human called it. I called it a crime. They attempted to play a tune I recognized from their humming—something about twinkling stars—but it came out as a series of disjointed shrieks, a message from a dying satellite. I flattened my ears, narrowed my eyes into slits of pure judgment, and silently transmitted my disdain across the room. This was not an instrument of joy; it was a weapon of sonic warfare, and my human was a clumsy, tone-deaf soldier. Finally, a text message drew the human's attention away. They set the blue offender down on the Persian rug and left the room. Silence descended, beautiful and profound. I crept from my chaise, my paws silent on the plush wool. I circled the bizarre object. It lay there, inert, its wide, cartoonish mouth agape. I was not afraid. I was an artist, and this was an untuned piano, a Stradivarius in the hands of a fool. I remembered the human's clumsy sliding motion. Extending a single, perfect paw, I gently pressed down on the black strip of its neck. A soft, low "wah" emerged. It was mournful, yes, but it was controlled. I slid my paw up an inch. The pitch rose in a clean, elegant glissando. I was a natural. I tapped the cheek-nubs with my nose, and the note quivered with a delicate, tasteful vibrato. This was not noise; this was expression. I began my first composition: "An Ode to the Unfilled Food Bowl," a heartbreaking melody in the key of E-flat meow. The human returned to find me, a maestro at work, coaxing a hauntingly beautiful lament from the blue tadpole. They stood in stunned silence. The instrument, I concluded, was worthy. Their clumsy thumbs, however, were not.
