The Manhattan Love Machine begins like this very review: it jumps right into the thick of things. After a similar preparatory remark-- "Here comes tickle-fingers!"-- the first number, "Tickle Fingers," hits the listener with a sauntering upright bass that resembles Bricolage-era Amon Tobin without sounding at all derivative. Perhaps it's the little things-- car crash sound effects, comedic punchline samples, a subtly employed triangle or maracas-- or the larger musical themes, like the blip-heavy interlude or the organic, but oftentimes electronically deviant drums. Whatever the reason, it immediately sucks you in.

This fresh sound is followed by the electro-dub of "Rematrix," which ends up acting as a prelude to "Naturescent," one of the most aptly-titled electronic tracks since Coldcut's "Timber." Combining hollow, distant synth notes with the drunken beat of "Rematrix"-- at one point descending into a plodding, Björkian industrial drone-- the song is The Manhattan Love Machine's first venture into detached ambient. This music would accompany the time-lapse photography of a lush, contained garden in a square, white-walled room lit with fluorescent lights.

Segueing into "White on Green," the sound is just that: a closer look at the naturescent room I envisioned. The synth is levered to the foreground while static blips float over the-- and I can't stress this enough-- organic, more energized drums. (Surprise, surprise: TRS-80 play live drums in concert.) The first movement of "Pussy Wagon" offers the welcome simplicity of sanitized drum-n-bass and various unobtrusive sounds, but the song opens up into a more muddled affair, with slower, crustier beats sharing space with thick, low-pitched keyboards. Then, the song returns to its former self.

"Night Soil" is literally hypnotic. Over the soft crashing of electronic waves, a deep voice describes the relaxation of muscles. "All your worries disappear," he says. "There's nothing to worry about, nothing to fear." Like all effective hypnotism, his words don't become true until they're spoken. While many electronic acts would turn such vocal samples into a dark message about mankind's blind obedience, TRS-80 lets the song achieve what its lyrics intend to.

"MT830" pulls me out of my own head to draw attention to the spaceships floating by. And who's that man down the hallway? I can hear him, but the echo renders his words indecipherable. Surely there's a nitrous leak. And if there is, "The Drum Specialist" is high on it, too. His drums use the space between my ears as a layover port, ricocheting until they're ready to reach the flight's intended destination.

Which I guess is Hollywood, home to "The Biz (Filthy Rich)." No, wait. Hear to that near-cheesy old-school rap beat? This must be New York (circa 1983) via Mars (circa 4040). But before you can say "Grandmaster Flash," the music whisks you away and applies "Formula '71," an ointment that ignites your nerves and leaves you groggy, numb and confused. Once this is removed from your skin, you feel an uncontrollable full-body twitch so intense that a video camera would record only a blur. This is called "The Modern Practical Method," which requires that you move at a hyperkinetic beat powered by a leaking nuclear reactor. And when it eventually explodes, you stop, thereupon faced with an understood silence.

-Ryan Kearney