She was drawn to speed.
The moment she straddled the machine and cast herself into the controlled wind. When the scenery became a blur of lines and thought could no longer keep pace—that sensation alone was the only way to be free from time in this city.
But the limits were already decided. Speed never exceeded the boundaries of entertainment. The numerical values were constantly optimized to ensure that neither accidents nor deviations could ever occur.
No one gets hurt; no one sheds a tear. In exchange, no one ever reaches the critical point.
A completed world. That reality left a faint, stagnant residue deep within her chest.
Beyond the borders of this city, did a speed without restrictions truly exist?
Then, one night, the wind wavered.
A vibration exceeding the regulation values. An impact that could not be reduced to an equation. Something—at an unimaginable velocity—had streaked past her.
The display units remained silent. No warnings, no corrections. And yet, her body alone remembered that passage.
She pulled on her goggles. She started the engine.
—How far does this city’s definition of "speed" go?
In the next instant, she slammed down the accelerator.
She believes in speed.
She hits the gas before she stops to wonder.
Fast machines and heavy sound are what she likes.
Given the choice to pause or keep driving without a clear view, she keeps going.
This band's direction is set by her voice.
She hardly speaks.
Low end is more accurate than words, for her.
Most of the time she's reading manga.
The rhythm of turning pages and a bass line have something in common.
Her feelings sit deep beneath the sound.
He can more or less do anything.
So nothing really ties him down.
People look up to him like an older brother; he doesn't pay it much mind.
He appears when the mood strikes and leaves the freest sound behind.
Piano is the oldest language he knows.
Everything else he picked up later.
Games, anime, and the real world blur a little at the edges.
His sound is precise and quiet.
His keyboard softens this world, just a little.
The longest-lived in the group.
The jokes are old; the rhythm stays new.
He runs his mouth while keeping time tighter than anyone.
The band stays on the rails because he never betrays the beat.
He's been in Funktown a long time.
He never steps into the spotlight.
Why he brought these members together still hasn't been told.
They say he was there when the city was still normal—and when it started to warp.
From the very beginning, there was only one rule for "Supersonic": the sound had to embody "speed." The title was the only thing decided from the earliest stages of production.
Funk Town is a city where everything is controlled. Speed, too, is optimized within a safe range—a world where no one gets hurt, but in exchange, no one ever pushes past the limit. Within such a city, this song poses a question: Exactly how far does this city’s definition of "speed" go?
The production was more difficult than I had imagined. When trying to balance velocity with precision, both the sound and the vocals would instantly begin to fray. Ultimately, the solution I reached was not to "add," but to "strip away." I reduced the information, making it so simple that even the AI wouldn't lose its way. The faster the song, the clearer the intent must be.
The finished "Supersonic" is a track overflowing with energy and exhilaration. Within the album, it is the most outward-facing and impulsive piece of all.
In a perfectly regulated city, speed might be nothing more than a form of entertainment. But you cannot regulate impulse.
"Supersonic" is the accelerator—a song for slamming down the pedal at the exact moment the equilibrium begins to waver.
— maurice blue
Producer / Bluepiece Lab.
Single
