Sometimes I like it hard and quick. "Give it to me," I pant, only wanting the fast pleasure that so few can give. And, almost invariably, I am disappointed, as he or she (or they) continues to pound away for far too long, on occasion lasting over an hour, or, very rarely, tooling on for the maximum time allowed in such matters, a sore and throbbing 74 minutes. Why can't I find someone, or a bunch of someones, who knows how do it right and/or tight, bringing me to the peak tout suite and leaving me asking for an encore?

Or maybe I should ask, why couldn't I before this point? Because I think I have finally found my man. His name is Trevor, and he and I and his little release are very happy together. Don't misinterpret me; his release is only little in terms of length. About 12 minutes long, if you really want to know. And before you say, "Why you goin' with a man who's got such a short unit?" allow me to remind you that it is not the length that matters when a guy is trying to shift his units; it's the girth. And my man Trevor has got girth to spare. Mmmmmm.

The thickest portion of his "piece of art," as I like to call it, definitely lies in the way he uses vintage synths. In fact, besides his ever-present and oh-so-reassuring rhythmic drum thumps and the way he coos in my ear, nearly every sound made when we get together is that of a synth. The tickling melody leads, the manly rhythm chords, and the hot, yet sensitive basslines all roll together into this kind of crackling, steamy new wave stew, crawling down that taut line between slightly kinky indie-electro-pop and its darker, nastier cousin, the 80's re-hash. Somehow, though, he never crosses the line either way, preferring instead to keep to what the poets call "the middle way," and what I call a backdoor to my heart.

He starts by talking about death. Doesn't seem very exciting, I know, but when his pitch raises on the phrase, "Give no-one/ A hard one," I don't want him to give it to anyone else. And then I swear he's telling death to both suck him and cure him, and making it seem like the two acts are inextricably linked. Okay, so he can be sort of weird, but he does know how to soothe me. In the second position, we have the aptly named "Tranquilizer," which beats along nicely to begin with, then hits a really chunky keyboard groove, while Trevor sings to me, "Tranquilizer/ Tranquilize you," then starts talking about things which are oval, like tranquilizer pills and windows and, occasionally, mouths. Well, he doesn't mention that last one explicitly, but he and I both know that some things are better left unsaid.

Then we get into the "White-Hot Minimal," and that title is apt, as this is where it really does get hot. "I was telling you off/ But now I'm trying to get off/ On you/ Off you/ You make me ache." Damn, boy! Keep that shit coming! And I love when he brings in those ladies to back him up. They add the sweetest touch, and they sparkle during "Sparks," a hard-driving two minutes which always make me feel a little nostalgic for the dalliance I had with Mark Robinson's post-Unrest efforts. The difference, here, though, is that while Mark always seemed to be straining to please me, Trevor can do it without looking like he's trying. Of course, that can also be a little unsettling, as I can never really tell whether he cares about me; "I can get a flash of/ My hand on your/ Backside now," he sings, like he's memorized my posterior, and can now call it up anytime without the benefit of my presence. He gives me no guarantees.

It would almost be too much for me to take, if he didn't then look into my "American Eyes" and deliver the most perfect organ-squeezing melody of the night, and the words that he knows I want to hear: "So fucked up/ This future/ Let's run away/ Let's go to bed." I realize, for the first time, that we haven't yet been together on a bed, and how odd that would normally seem, but also how, this time, I just don't mind. When we get there, he stops singing for a minute and plays with his instrument, calling it his "Ambient" time, and, although it really isn't ambient in our conventional genre understanding of the word as "ethereal and quiet," it does fit the dictionary definition of "surrounding and encircling." In fact, under that definition, our whole experience together was ambient. I never knew how much I liked ambiance until I got to know Trevor.

Maybe I should tell you what I like best about my man. It could be his experience; he perfected his technique on the mean indie streets under the name of See Saw or Sea Saw, depending on who you ask; he worked in the booths of True Love Always, the Lilys, and Bonny Billy; and Drums is not his first "hollAnd" effort, nor will it be his last. It could be how he gives me what I want: that fast, fat fifth-hour of funk. But, in truth, what I really like best about him is how he wraps it, and me, all up. His drums kick in for the last time, and he tells me all about my favorite subject: me.

"Your face/ Your tongue/ Your brain/ So active/ You're all I want now." And I don't care if he's lying. He just has to keep saying those words, and I'll let him run out his short time. And then I'll do what I do with so few of my musical loves these days: I'll ask him to start over. And he will, because he is perfect and unquestioning, and because I hold his remote control unit in my hand. Synth me, baby, one more time.

-Jonny Pietin