Subject #2: Laura Harris

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Subject #2
Laura Harris
Filmed November 28, 2007
Black Cat
Washington, DC

Laura Harris, 25, is a drummer for Benjy Ferree, the Aquarium, and is a student at the Corcoran School of Art. When not pursuing an aesthetic lifestyle, she is a devoted employee of the Black Cat, Washington, D.C.'s premiere independent rock venue.

Though I had seen Laura perform with the Aquarium numerous times and admired her explosive drumming from afar, I first spoke with her at the Black Cat in 2006. I had gone to see a friend's band on the club's backstage and, much to my dismay, found the vocal audio signal mixed too low for human hearing. I glanced to the back of the room to see if the sound engineer would correct this sonic issue. Unfortunately, no sound engineer was present. I walked to the mixing board and contemplated adjusting the faders myself to boost the vocal level. I was staring at the mixer when Laura appeared unexpectedly.

"Don't touch the mixer," Laura warned.

"I wasn't going to touch the mixer," I replied.

"Are you sure?" Laura queried. "You looked like you were going to touch the mixer."

"No, I wasn't going to touch the mixer," I repeated. Laura disappeared into the depths of the Black Cat to continue accomplishing Black Cat-related tasks. Once she was gone, I contemplated the depth and breadth of the lie I had told her for the remainder of the night and much of the next day.

In the filmed portrait above, Laura is enthusiastically breaking down boxes, a regular part of her nightly Black Cat routine.

Subject #1: Raquel Vogl

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Subject #1
Raquel Vogl
Filmed November 27, 2007
Glasslands Gallery
Brooklyn, New York

I met Raquel Vogl on June 27, 1996 at my first show in Washington, DC. My then-band played "Fat Cats" a poorly-named nightclub in Adams Morgan later reborn as "Asylum," which now serves a popular brunch. I did not say much to Raquel at Fat Cats, but rumors circulated that she and a young friend had made funny faces and danced ironic dances during my performance.

One year later, my band played a show with Raquel's then-band the Crainium in a basement in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Though she was not old enough to vote, Raquel's virtuosic playing displayed a precocious devotion to chromaticism which she cultivated in later groups like Blood Lines and RaRaFre, About five years our Minneapolis show, Raquel and I were called to jury duty before the Honorable Judge Rufus King III at D.C. Superior Court. His Honor was trying a possibly-guilty individual for possession of marijuana. Raquel and I dutifully reported our acquaintance-ship.

"One should not serve jury duty with someone one knows," I objected to the Honourable Rufus King III.

"Will the fact that you know this person affect your objectivity?" queried the Honourable Rufus King III.

"Well..." I considered His Honor's question. "I don't think so, but it seems inappropriate."

Both Raquel and I were excused from jury duty for reasons unknown. Her current band Legends is drummer-less but active in New York, where she moved in 2003 to teach English as a second language.


Dear Iceland Experiencer:

Recent CNN/YouTube presidential debates and the success of internet pornography prove that individuals interacting with new media expect a visual component to their online entertainment experiences. Literary musings and a rapier-sharp wit are not enough to satisfy Spaceship Earth's citizenry, whose bottomless appetite for filmed distraction grows somehow more bottomless with each evolution of the feline Macintosh operating system. The Gospel of John tells us that "in the beginning was the Word" (John 1:1). Obviously, this Biblical sloganeer was unfamiliar with DVDs and Comcast On-Demand.

As the Oz-like visionary behind the weblog "Iceland," I can ignore popular demand for visual stimuli no longer. Much to the Apple Corporation's delight, I purchased a Canon HV20 high-definition camcorder from one of its retail outlets two days ago on the eve of my band's fall U.S. tour. I will film portraits of individuals I encounter in the neverending stream of places I visit and, by doing so, put a human face on the many stories I tell about myself and those who inhabit my moveable universe. To highlight the fascist nature of the writer-subject relationship fundamental to what is popularly called "journalism," my subjects will not speak. This experiment is called "Iceland: Three Minutes of No Comment."

I implore you: enjoy your ride on the ever-spinning carousel of my aesthetics.


Justin Moyer

CEO/Presdient of the WeBlog Iceland

Return Flight


Dear Mr. Moyer:

As a representative of the Transportation Security Administration, I write to criticize your recent travel itinerary and address related issues in re: your alternative lifestyle.

Our records indicate that you flew from Philadelphia to Rome on 9 October 2007 to complete a European tour with your postpunk musical trio. At this tour's conclusion, you scheduled a return flight for 11 November 2007 from London to New York—not to Philadelphia, where you had left your car parked at your parents' suburban home—to save a small sum of money (approximately $200, or less than $70 per band member). "I'll just find a cheap way to get from New York to Philadelphia," you thought. "Besides, my London to New York itinerary connects through Philadelphia. Inexplicably, these flights from London to Philadelphia to New York are cheaper than one flight from London to Philadelphia. So, I'll book the cheaper London-Philadelphia-New York routing, and find a way to simply deplane in Philadelphia."

Your genius plan neglected the following factors:

1. Fees
People traveling from London to New York via Philadelphia do not "simply deplane in Philadelphia." Instead, travelers are required to go where they say they are going. As an US Airways representative informed you, any change in your itinerary carries a $100 fee. "But I'm not trying to change my itinerary," you explained. "I'm just trying, you know, not to, you know, totally complete it. You understand?" As you are now aware, the US Airways representative did not understand, proved unwilling to waive this $100 fee and, at the end of the day, probably didn't care about your or your little problem.

2. 9/11
Post-9/11, baggage traveling from London to New York via Philadelphia cannot, as you put it, "simply be taken off of the plane in Philadelphia." Instead, baggage is required to go where the people carrying it say they are going. If you are going to New York, your baggage is going to New York. If baggage could just be sent anywhere by anyone at anytime, willy-nilly...well, let's just say that this would be Mr. Osama Bin Laden's wet dream, and TSA is not in the business of pleasuring Mr. Osama Bin Laden.

3. Gear
You are a musician who travels with heavy musicmaking equipment. "To avoid baggage issues, I won't check any baggage," you might plan. "I'll just stuff everything I can into my carry-on luggage. In Philadelphia, I'll carry this luggage off of the plane and, instead of boarding my scheduled flight to New York, I'll leave the airport." I will admit it: this plan may work. But consider—you can disassemble your drum hardware and stuff it into a small hardshell suitcase, but do you really want to? In addition, you must now transport this weighy drum hardware from the airport to your parents' suburban home. If you parents are, for some reason, unable to pick you up, this means that you will have to take a SEPTA shuttle bus from Philadelphia International Airport to 30th Street Station in downtown Philadelphia, board an R2 SEPTA commuter train from downtown Philadelphia to Melrose Park Station in suburban Philadelphia, and either wait 45 minutes for a taxicab or walk 1.21 miles from Melrose Park Station to your parents' house carrying what now must feel like incredibly heavy drum hardware, a bass guitar, your computer, all of your clothes, and the ten novels you purchased while in Europe. Now, no one would actually do that, would they? If they did, maybe they would stash the drum hardware in the bushes halfway through the walk home, get their car, drive back to the bushes, and pick up the drum hardware. That seems more sensible.

Mr. Moyer, the Transportation Security Administration is committed on winning the War on Terror—terrors both foreign and domestic. In our view, the logistical hurdles you have set before yourself and your bandmates are a form of terrorism and do not justify the $200 you have saved by refusing to book a direct flight from London to Philadelphia. In the future, you should avoid acts of terrorism and disregard minor financial matters when pursuing your visionary dreams of art, fun, and an alternative lifestyle. This will make things easier on you and, by extension, those around you.

Peace of mind is, of course, the greatest security. Remember this.

Yours in struggle,

[name redacted]
Representative of the Transportation Security Administration

Show No. 30: London, England

Dear Govinda's Pure Vegetarian Restaurant:

I am writing to inform you that I can no longer patronize your establishment. I recently ate at your London Soho location and, while I enjoyed my low-priced meal, cannot return because Govinda's has failed the "Orlons Ideology Test."

I was born in large city in the United States of America called Philadelphia. In 1963, Philadelphia rock-and-roll quartet the Orlons penned an minimalist ode to our fair city's quirkiest shopping district. "South Street" featured the following lyrics:

Where do all the hippies meet?
South Street! South Street!
Where the dancin' is elite?
South Street! South Street!

In four short lines, "South Street" by the Orlons sums up the philosophical essence of South Street. South Street is "the place where the hippies meet." It is also the place where "the dancin' is elite." Little more need be said about South Street. South Street poses no ethical quandaries. South Street is, quite simply, a fun place to go and a fun place to be. The Orlons accurately convey my own opinion of South Street succinctly. Thus, South Street passes the Orlons Ideology Test.

The Govinda concept—dairy, meat, and egg-free meals at affordable prices—is rooted in the complex rhetoric of International Society for Krishna Consciousness Soho London Temple. "Govinda" is an alias of the Hindu deity Krishna, and your restaurant offers kill-free vegetarian meals as part of a karma-free lifestyle. According to your website, the "Sanskrit word karma means 'action,' or more specifically, any material action that brings a reaction that binds us to the material world." In Western terms, meals at Govinda are anti-existential—where Sartre et al Recognize the primacy of the Deed, Govinda positions itself against the Deed and material samsaric realm. Were the Orlons pressed to convey my relationship to this intricate pose in song, they would be forced to say:

Where do all those-who-are-in-desperate-search-of-vegetarian-meals-but-do-not-necessarily-wish-to-support-or-be-associated-with-Krishna-consciousness-or-its-practicioners meet?
Govinda's Pure Vegetarian Restaurant!
Where do those-who-like-samosas-but-cannot-realistically-reject-the-samsaric-realm-because-they-are-touring-Europe-promoting-their-art-for-a-would-be-exclusive-underground-whilst-toting-an-iBook-G4-laptop eat?
Govinda's Pure Vegetarian Restaurant!

As any songwriting dilettante can tell, these lyrics are absurd. Because the Orlons would be unable to convey the spirit of Govinda's Pure Vegetarian Restaurant in four short lines, your restaurant and your ideology fail the Orlons Ideology Test. Thus, though your samosas are delicious, I cannot patronize your establishment in the future.

As I enter my 30's, I am trying to simplify my life. I developed the Orlons Ideology Test to identify the large number of issues that, at my advanced age, I find too complicated to engage. These include the War on Terror, the American Democratic Presidential Primary, Beatles v. Stones, and Oprah Book Club controversies. I regret to inform you that, though I love your vegan fruit cake, I now add Govinda's Pure Vegetarian Restaurant to this roll-call of infamy.

Good luck in the future,

Justin Moyer
CEO/Writer of the WeBlog Iceland

Show No. 29: Swansea, Wales

Overheard on the commons in Swansea, Wales:

Mrs. Cow #1: Why, helllooooo, Mrs. Cow!
Mrs. Cow #2: Why, helllooooo, Mrs. Cow!
MC1: All right, then. Well, I'll just stand right here, then. Huddle-up, huddle-up. Let's get warm. Block the wind.
MC2: Oooh, indeed, block that wind. 'Tis quite cold out here on the commons. Quite cold indeed.
MC1: Indeed. (Munching grass.) I must say, this grass is a bit al dente today.
MC2: That's the winter coming on, luv. Lower temperature stiffens the blades. (Munching grass.) Oooh, I've got a bit in my teeth. Quite unsightly.
MC1: Oh, don't worry about that, Ms. Cow. We don't stand on ceremony here. This is the commons, after all, and we're just common cows. Common proletarian cows grazing on common public land. That's our right, as it was the right of our forebears centuries ago.
MC2: Forecows, you mean. Not forebears. Forecows.
MC1: Forecows? What? Oh, oh, ha ha ha! I've gotten it now. Good joke! Good joke! You are so funny, Ms. Cow!
MC2: Well, my mother always said, a bit of humour brightens the darkest knoll, moor, or hedgerow! (Munching grass.) But you, Ms. Cow, you are so knowledgeable about the history of the commons!
MC1: 'Twas me father that taught us about the commons. He was quite the revolutionary cow, that one.
MC2: Quite a red cow, was he?
MC1: Well, no, he was piebald...oh, Ms. Cow! You've gotten me again. A red cow! Revolutionary red! Good joke, good joke!
MC2: Ha ha ha ha ha!
MC1: Yes, well, father was quite a red cow then, as you put it. You see, the enclosure of the English commons plays quite a role in Marx's understanding of primitive accumulation and the development of capitalism. Before the poisonous concept of private property found its way to our fine isle, farmers could bring their herds to places like this and set them out to graze for no cost. But, through enclosure, most of this land was deeded to private owners. Thus, the small farmer was bankrupted and forced into plague-ridden cities. There, farmers faced a lifetime of tedium performing Adam Smith's "one simple operation" on a factory assembly line and battling ennui.
MC2: Quite miserable.
MC1: Quite. Indeed, my father was fervently anti-capitalist. Did you know that he fought the forces of Franco during the Spanish Civil War?
MC2: Oooh! How daring! Did he see battle!
MC1: Indeed, he was wounded. Lost two of his four stomachs.
MC2: Quite gory, was it?
MC1: Well, I suppose it's not an appropriate topic for the dinner table.
MC2: Or the dinner field, as it were?
MC1: The dinner field? You mean...oh, oh, the dinner field! Because we eat our dinner in a field! I've gotten it! Good joke, good joke, that! Good one, Ms. Cow.
MC2: Ha ha ha ha ha ha! (Munching grass.)
MC1: Well, father lived quite the life. Helped Churchill and Roosevelt plan D-Day. Negotiated the decolonization of India with Nehru. Helped Malcolm McLaren engineer the Sex Pistols. In fact, he used to regularly breakfast with Dylan Thomas.
MC2: He did, then?
MC1: Indeed. Said Mr. Thomas got the idea for "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight" after watching my father trip on a haystack coming into the barn after sundown.
MC2: Well, all the younger cows always said that your father had a stellar repmootation.
MC1: A what? A repmootation? Oh...oh! Oh! Ms. Cow! You mean my father had a stellar reputation, but you've gone and changed it to "rep-moo-tation" because my father was a cow, and cows say "Moo!" I've gotten it! Ha ha ha ha ha! I've gotten it! Oh Mrs. Cow! You are simply too much!!!!

Show No. 28: Sheffield, England

Sheffield, a friendly university town nestled in South Yorkshire, is home to a well-informed student community and other assorted wildlife. For example, cuddly monsters (see above) provide hours of entertainment and can be adopted for £4. Those not wishing to splurge on a full-size monster can take home a small monster for £1.50. The small monster—a monster more than half as large as a full-size monster for less than half the price—is quite a bargain!

Other Sheffield wildlife, though not necessarily for sale, are noteworthy:

1. The Sheffield Promoter
The Sheffield Promoter, though bespectacled, is friendly, courteous, and, if pressed, most cuddly. This species can often be seen lurking about the Red House a venue that, though it resembles the pub where Frodo (Elijah Wood) first meets Strider/Aragorn (Viggo Mortensen) in the Peter Jackson film The Fellowship of the Ring (2001), somehow puts on sweaty, well-attended punk shows. Bucking storied English musician-starvation policies, the Sheffield Promoter will feed you pasta. The pasta may be cold, and the Red House will not supply any plates to eat the pasta off. However, you will cold pasta off of a pile of paper napkins because, really, what else were you going to eat in Sheffield, anyway? The Sheffield Promoter is also happy to let you spend the night in surprisingly clean, comfortable, heated student housing. If you stay with a Sheffield promoter, remember that Sheffield Promoters love the films of Alfred Hitchcock. You may admire a few Hitchcock films—Lifeboat (1944), Psycho (1960), or the overlooked Frenzy (1972). However, if you stay with a Sheffield Promoter, be prepared to explain why you find North by Northwest(1959) incredibly boring.

2. The Sheffield Soundman
The Sheffield Soundman, while enthusiastic and attentive, behaves like an acid casualty. Though you are playing a venue you no larger than a bourgeois' dining room, the Sheffield Soundman will try to mic all of your instruments. Do not fret—the Sheffield Soundman will soon realize this is unnecessary. Then, the Sheffield Soundman will attempt to provide vocal mics—a monitor-free, "vocals-only," minimalist P.A. set-up. However, after agreeing that a "vocals-only" set up is workable, the Sheffield Soundman will ask you what microphones you need (the proper response is "Well, uh, just vocals"), record how many vocals you need in a notebook (yes, he will, quite literally, write "2 vocal mics" in this notebook), then disappear for 30 minutes while you stand around looking at your bandmates wondering what to do next before calling off soundcheck entirely. A pleasant surprise awaits you—by the time your show rolls around five hours later, the Sheffield Soundman will, inexplicably, prove 100% competent at the arts of sound mixing and sound design.

3. The Sheffield Chippy-Owner
Hungry musicians need greasy food and, in pursuit of greasy snacks, often visit a fish-and-chips shop (in British parlance, a "chippy") at late hours. Though the Sheffield Chippy-Owner often refuses to acknowledge passerby after 1 a.m., he may agree to extend his hours when he sees you, the opening band, and 5-10 assorted hangers-on waltz into his shop at 12:57 a.m., ready to spend. Sheffield Chippy-Owners offer many food items for sale, as long as they are burgers, kebabs, chips (a.k.a. "fries"), and soda, but, for unknown reasons, frown on the gustatory revolution known around the world as "mustard." The Sheffield Chippy-Owner is an MTV Europe apologist, and, while serving you, will broadcast MTV Europe on a flat-screen television, playing recent hits at high volumes. If you visit a Sheffield Chippy-Owner, do not watch too much of this programming. It is poisonous.

Show No. 27: Glasgow, Scotland

To: 048473893939392927X
From: 8743278924789489Z
Date: 7 November 2007
In re: Humans

Hail 048473893939392927X! I bring you the latest news of my continuing clandestine observation of Milky Way Galaxy, Sun 3x323dd23f, Planet 3, popularly known as "Earth." I must say, I find the inhabitants of this galactic backwater remarkable!

On Earth Date 7 November 2007, I piloted my starcraft over a freezing geographical area Earth's denizens call "Scotland." I wanted to confirm rumors that fluffy, white ruminants called "sheep" overrun this alleged nation-state, and that humans who do not object to something called "factory farming conditions" harvest the coarse hair of these "sheep" for "wool" used in human clothing production. Imagine—wearing the hair of another species for warmth and protection, instead of shedding one's physical form to exist as pure energy! Let me tell you, 048, things are quite primitive down here.

As I soared over the deciduous trees native to Scotland's temperate climes, I passed a strip of tarmac over which Earthlings pilot petroleum-fueled four-wheeled vehicles at high speeds. Targeting a few of these vehicles with my subsonic listening device and handy universal translator, I tuned in to a few chance conversations and picked up quite a humorous transmission:

(Beginning of transmission.)
Subject 1: Dude, the guidebook says that Glasgow is the techno capital of Europe.
Subject 2: Doesn't the guidebook say that about every city we go to?
S1: I thought techno was invented in Detroit, dude.
S2: Nah, Kraftwerk invented techno in Germany, dude.
S1: Yeah, but then those dudes in Detroit perfected it. What was that guy's name? That was techno, dude. O.G. techno.
S1: I don't know, dude, Glasgow seems pretty techno. (7 second pause.) Will there be people at the show tonight? (9 second pause).
S2: It's really early, but it's really dark. (2 second pause.) How high are we, dude?
S1: I don't know, dude, our seats are like two feet off the ground.
S2: No, dude, how high are we on the Earth?
S1: We're two feet off the ground, dude, driving in the van, dude.
S2: No, dude, like, is Glasgow as far north as Miami, Richmond, New York, or Newfoundland?
S1: Goddammit dude, I don't know.
(End of transmission.)

Oh, 048—have you ever heard such a ridiculous conversation? Though mortal humans love to boast about their species' superiority, they remain latitudinally-challenged! Though any Earthchild could calculate latitude (the N-S location of any point on what they so preciously call "Mother Earth") by reference to the North Star, these bearded, bald adult male subjects were not even aware that Glasgow, the capital of Scotland, rests at approximately 55 degrees North—the same latitude as Moscow, and over 10 degrees north of Montreal, Canada! I do not understand how a being could live on a planet and remain so unsophisticated. To be honest, the whole thing reminded me of the time you and 390983457897Y took me to Planet ZZZZZZZZEEDD in the XDRAEER system and we all went gringots parflaying around with that mantorin of horbinots!

Weren't those the days?

Well, I will continue to update you on further developments in Scotland. At your convenience, transmit the go codes for the nuclear annihilation devices. I am eager to terminate this place and return home.

Yours in horbinots (ha ha!!!),


Show No. 26: Liverpool, England

Dear John Lennon,

I am writing to inform you that, after your assassination on 9 December 1980, Liverpool mourned, but, 27 years later, is now soldiering on quite ably without you.

I hope you do not think me the bearer of bad tidings. Rolling Stone magazine has long emphasized that you are a rock and roll legend. Though I have never been a rock and roll legend, I can "imagine" (as you yourself "imagined") that it is difficult when one's star fades after burning so brightly. Though I do not take a position in the "Who's the best Beatle, Paul or John?" debate, I must admit that, "in my life" (as you yourself might say), I have found your songs moving and well-constructed. I have often marveled at the architecture of, for example, "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)." Who is the mysterious woman who rejects her suitor and forces the spurned young man to "sleep in the bath?" And why is this tale of a failed tryst so short? After all, you are the effusive composer of "Revolution No. 9," a tedious, eight minute-plus "music concrete" tape piece. The sublime "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" clocks in at barely two minutes! I might have tacked on another verse or a chorus to get the song up to three minutes—even though, in retrospect, this composition's brevity may be the key to its success. But, however successful "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" may be and despite the fact that Liverpool paid aeronautical tribute to you, neither your name nor the names of Paul, George, Ringo, George Martin, Billy Preston, Yoko, Julian, or Sean were mentioned during my stay in your birthplace beside the Mersey.

I hope that my letter does not belittle your legacy. While in Liverpool, I did wonder whether the show I played would have been possible without your influence. Consider this timeline:

1960 Beatles move to Hamburg and hone their "chops" in endless nightclub performances
1962 Beatlemania begins
1967 Beatles release Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band—enter overproduced, "mature" phase
1975 Led Zeppelin release Physical Graffiti, the most overproduced, "mature" record in the history of rock
1976 The Ramones release The Ramones, a minimalist, punk response to rock "maturity"
2007 My minimalist punk band plays a art gallery in Liverpool to a small, but enthusiastic crowd.

I think this timeline proves that, though I may not discuss you, The Beatles, The Plastic Ono Band, Fluxus, or Mark David Chapman specifically while I am in Liverpool, the very fact that I played a show in Liverpool at all makes me part of the "Lennon/Beatles diaspora," of which every musician working in any genre today is a member.

In closing, I wish to inform you that Liverpool has been named European Capital of Culture 2008. Though the European Union's economic blessing will bring much-needed development to your hometown, Liverpool's re-imagining is not directly related to skiffle, Pete Best, bed-ins, Shaved Fish, or Albert Goldman. Still, this should not trouble you much. No matter how much Liverpool will change, people will still wander around downtown wondering where the Cavern is.

Yours in struggle,

Justin Moyer
President/CEO of the WeBlog "Iceland"

Show No. 25: Derby, England

Overheard at a venue in Derby, England.

Me: Hello. I'm from the band playing here tonight.
Derby Club Representative: Hallo.
Me: Hallo.
DCR: Hallo.
Me: Thanks for having us tonight. We're excited to play this venue. All right.
DCR: Awl right.
Me: Awl right. We're excited because we think it's a sushi restaurant. It's called Susumi, right?
DCR: Awl right, guv'nor.
Me: Awl right, guv'nor. Susumi sure sounds like the name of a sushi restaurant. At least, in America, the sushi restaurants have names like Susumi. It sure looks like a sushi restaurant in here. Very minimalist décor.
DCR: Don't know about that, then.
Me: Awl right. Awl right.
DCR: Awl right, guv'nor.
Me: Awl right, awl right, guv'nor. I'm sorry to ask this right off, but do you have a wireless internet connection?
DCR: Wireless in thee band room.
Me: Awl right, awl right. In thee band room, then?
DCR: Awl right, awl right.
Me: Awl right, awl right. Where's thee band room, then?
DCR: Awl right, awl right. Let's just pop up to thee band room and get that wireless. Password's written on a piece of paper up there, then. Awl right. Just follow me, guv'nor.
Me: Awl right, awl right. (Some moments pass.) So, thee band room then, up these stairs, then?
DCR: Yeah, yeah. Cheers.
Me: Awl right, awl right. (Some moments pass.) Quite a few stairs we're walking up, then? We walk up two flights and there's more stairs, then? Up three flights.
DCR: Yeah, yeah, cheers, quite a walk.
Me: Cheers, cheers. Awl right, awl right. (Some moments pass.) I'm quite out 'a breath then, walking up all these stairs. Three flights we're walking up here, is it?
DCR: Awl right, awl right.
Me: Awl right, awl right. Goddamn. Can't remember thee last time I walked up so many goddamn stairs, guv'nor.
DCR: Awl right, guv'nor, we're here then. Just up those three flights and into this room back 'ere. Awl right. Here 'tis.
Me: Awl right, awl right. (Some moments pass.) There's no light in this room.
DCR: Cheers, cheers. Thee bulb blew some time ago.
Me: Cheers, cheers. All the bulbs in all the lights went out, then? Thee band room is a totally black room, then? No bulbs, no lights, then?
DCR: Yes, yes, a black room, then. Awl right, awl right. Just come back 'ere and we'll get you that wireless. Cheers, cheers.
Me: But it's quite dark in here. (Some moments pass.) Awl right, then, awl right. You find that paper, guv'nor?
DCR: Mmmm. Mmmm. Can't find that paper, guv'nor. But hold on. Wait, guv'nor. I remember that password. It's my manager's birthday. It's 17 June 1979.
Me: The manager's younger than me?
DCR: Cheers.
Me: Cheers, cheers. Awl right.
DCR: Awl right. So just type 17 June 1979 into yer browser then. Awl right.
Me: Awl right. You mean 06171979, then? Cheers.
DCR: Cheers., wait, guv'nor. The English day. Type 17061979. You know, day first, then month, then year, guv'nor. American way won't work—you Yanks put the month first, we don't do that o'er here. Do it the English way, month first. Try that then, that should work, then. An' if that don't work, type "00" before you type 17061979. So, then, you'd be typing 0017061979 guv'nor. Awl right, awl right. You got that, guv'nor?
Me: It's too dark in here. I can't see my computer keyboard.