The people you play music with, in the room you actually play in

Three of us, eleven years, one rehearsal room with a damp patch and carpet stapled to the walls. We have no photographs because there is nothing to photograph. Turns out the room is the photograph — you just have to light it like it matters. Same coats in the corner, same crisps, same terrible fluorescent tube. It looks like the inside of the sleeve of a record we never made.