"It needed work. The humidity was wrong for the servers, the acoustics were wrong for recording, and the wiring was a fire hazard. I spent the first three weekends fixing things nobody else noticed were broken. I don't regret any of it. It's the only place I've ever felt like I was building something that mattered."

"The kitchen is the size of a large cupboard. I cook in it every Saturday. I don't know why I find that comforting. Maybe because it's the one corner of the cellar where I'm in charge of something. The rest of the space belongs to the music. The kitchen belongs to me."

"I've slept here more times than I can count. The couch is terrible. The light is always the same — it doesn't matter what time it is outside. I think that's why I write better here. Time doesn't work the same way underground."

"It smelled like mold and old cables and something I couldn't identify when I first walked in. I stayed anyway. I've been trying to figure out why ever since. I think it's because the place already looked like it had survived something. I respect that in a building."