Pete's Expert Summary
Ah, another plastic noisemaker from the VTech corporation, a brand I associate with the kind of electronic racket that shatters the sublime silence of a sunbeam nap. My human seems to think this "Kidi Star DJ Mixer" is for a small, clumsy human, but they are mistaken. This is clearly a sophisticated command console. While the pre-programmed "music" is an insult to my discerning ears, the potential is undeniable. A spinning platter for batting, a constellation of glowing buttons for tactical paw-pressing, and the ability to record my own vocalizations present a unique opportunity. It could be a powerful tool for demanding dinner, or it could just be another source of migraines. The jury is still out, but the turntable is a compelling argument in its favor.
Key Features
- Mix and jam with a DJ turntable, 15 built-in songs and 2000+ sound combinations
- Create custom sound effects to mix onto songs, then save your music samples and add light effects for a dazzling DJ party
- Connect to your music playlist via BLUETOOTH wireless technology or audio cable; play your mash-ups through the built-in speaker or plug in headphones (music player, audio cable and headphones not included)
- Fine tune your DJ talent by playing along with a built-in music game
- Intended for ages 5+ years; requires 4 AA batteries; batteries included for demo purposes only; new batteries recommended for regular use
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Unholy Machine arrived in a brightly colored box, a harbinger of auditory doom. The smaller of my humans, the one with the sticky fingers and a startling lack of coordination, was its intended operator. For an hour, my sanctuary was filled with a cacophony of tinny beats and laser sounds, a sonic assault that made the vacuum cleaner seem like a gentle lullaby. I retreated to my velvet chaise lounge, tail twitching in profound irritation, observing the chaos. This was not music; this was a crime against peace and quiet. My opportunity came when the small human was forcibly removed for a bath, leaving the device silent but still powered on, its lights pulsing like a malevolent, synthetic heart. I approached with the dignified caution of a bomb disposal expert, my white paws silent on the hardwood floor. The main attraction was the flat, circular disk—the "turntable." I gave it a tentative pat. It spun freely, a perfect, frictionless rotation that was deeply satisfying. Another pat, faster this time. The motion was hypnotic. My cynicism began to melt away, replaced by a primal urge to make the spinny thing go. Then I discovered the buttons. My first press unleashed a distorted "Yeah!" that startled me into a low crouch. An accidental brush of my tail against a slider changed the pitch, making the disembodied voice squeak like a terrified mouse. This was no mere toy. This was an instrument. I began my work in earnest, a maestro composing my magnum opus. A paw on the turntable for a "wub-wub-wub" scratch effect, a delicate tap of my nose on a drum pad for a beat, a swat at the light-up sphere for a flourish. I was creating something new, something that spoke of the restless, nocturnal soul of the feline. I found a button with a microphone icon and, leaning in, let out a long, imperious meow. I pressed another button, and my own voice echoed back at me, amplified and layered over a pounding beat. When my main human entered the room, they did not find a cat annoyed by a toy. They found an artist at his console. I was hunched over the mixer, one paw on the turntable, my gaze fixed on the pulsing lights, lost in my symphony of chaos. I met my human’s bewildered stare and, with a flick of my paw, triggered my recorded meow—a clear, powerful broadcast demanding immediate tribute in the form of tuna. The machine was not just worthy; it was my new pulpit. And from it, I would preach.