It’s not preposterous to claim that she plays pretty much all instruments. Even the traditional Japanese ones, whose sound she samples and condenses into dissonant harmonies with analog synths until the walls start flickering. Hardcore is for wimps. Only when the white fog comes is there nothing to hear anymore. No more noise, no wind. Only the foghorn. In Tokyo there’s a kind of music when a butterfly flaps its wings. Here too, when drones rise up to the galaxy. There’s a hum in the cable. Check the impulse frequency. The rest is noise.