No reputation is is safe in this dark town and it’s a testament to his actual talent that he’s so beloved by the young and the old and newly wed (breeders) and the nearly dead. Tetris, see his musical light is so translucent that it passes right through a shit town’s colon like a cateye marble or a Chinese coin. You know, the old cartoon coins with the hole in the centre. The kind you could make a Mardi Gras bead necklace out oc. None of that cheap Wal Mart plastic for Tetris, nope. His rock (is it rock, or does it just crackle and sizzle like rock) is pure sterling and the genuine article. So here finally we arrive at Tetris Demetris and the meat of the situation. The real beef. Or bison. There was always an old bison farm north of town and just out of nostirl’s reach for we high school pussyhounds. They kept the girls homeschooled, I think they were Mennonite or Mormon of Sunni or something. Anyway, nestled amidst a fake homemade teepee and a hog wigwam the scent out of which would curdle the nostrils of even the politest of housebroken swine, were the bison. Anyway. Tetris brings the beef and he brings it, lest I be dating oneself, in a way that transcends generations. Many bison died so these songs could be born. Consider, pardner, the opening track where he references hanging myself. Now that’s a touch jury, but in angelic fashion, and I don’t mean that saccarine look that girls use when they try to bum a smoke in the smoke pit between double blocks on a sunny Monday morning, he masculines his vocal chords and tells a story of want and woe. It’s as though he’s recapitulating probably his hitherto major claim to faim. See, arriving from far away and of both British and Hebraic origins, his first days in school were marred by his less-than-eye-batting method of acquiring a cancer stick: “might I bum a fag?” he’s ask. And always of the guys who don’t take a joke, the ones who’d punch a lightpost to defend their mother’s honour while lying under oath in court to win when child custody battles, ensued. Selfish privaleged guys, the kind that Tetris sings away from in the way that a fish swims away from fecal matter drooling out of an infants diaper at Rotary Beach. After learning the proper way to bum a smoke Tetris tended to keep to himself; he donned a Yamukah and hung out in the library and back of the park a lot. Yet, when he sings “hang me, fucking hang me” you best believe it. There’s frontier justice in that there passionate endive. Same with his song about being Among the Gentiles. Probably he smoked cocoa puffs behind the abandoned Food City building like the rest of us. Gardens grow abundant when there’s no humans around; it’s in moments such as at 1:25 of Among the Gentiles where the spaces abound and the light rushes in. There’s groove beyond the minimalist setup. Like our town. In Summerland the light is always rushing in, making reality, be it light through curtains rustled by carpet munching middle aged New Order fans or the dazzling rays reliving history that never leaves pavement alone no matter how few or many times the reccurrent potholes are re-paved. In Summerland Nietzsche’s “Law of Eternal Recurrence is Writ Large”, in Gentile format no less. There’s always a caring and gentle but creepily off-putting knowin hand on one’s knee, history-wsie. True story: in 1989 a whole swathe of now-merrily-verily-deceased United Church goers protested the allowangce of gay and lesbian reverends. They did so by marching, en masse, up the little sloped hill to the Baptist Church. And let me tell you me the Baptist Church in Summerand remains the dominant house of worship and pregancy our of wedlock to this day. It’s also the best palce to get a noctunal handjob down at the entranceway to the youth group centre. Glory holes got nothin on those upstanding volunteer firefighter sons. Legal age, all of it, and when you leave lights on at night to keep away the strays you’re kinda asking for it. Bu maybe I’m dating myself again.