Once the quiet of the curfew hour settles, Tennis bursts through the dense stereo distance of 1930’s wireless. In an effortless mishmash, the incessantly cheery cadence and angelic harmonies draw the world into a wistful reverie.
A hot air balloon bobs over somewhere familiar in “South Carolina”. Far below, animated mice rollerblade in a synchronized splendor. They make loops, swirls and whirligigs, all the while crooning soprano sounds into megaphones that waft upwards on a warm breeze.
As in a dream, Tennis masks sorrow with deception. Exposed on a bright, blown out beach, a lone hula dancer sways her skirt in “Marathon”, moving to the waxing and waning of the tide. Somewhere, a chirping magpie oohs and aahs to the rising swells, searching for a glimmer of far-off shiny bells. She searches ceaselessly in a sun-drenched snow globe, where luminous repetitive beats belie the morose monotony of her never-ending captivity.