Obi points up to a green neon sign:
“This is where the magic happens.”
On another wall, his band’s name,
FRSH MNT T, is scrawled in lime-green
graffiti writing with a black outline.
“How do you say that?”
Matt whispers to Vass.
“Fresh Mint Tea,” Vass whispers back.
“But it’s giving brat,” they add.
“You into Charli XCX?” they ask Obi.
“Not really,” Obi answers.
“I’m more into bands than solo artists.
Here’s our drum kit, keys,
guitar, bass, banjo, violin,
mandolin, trumpet, accordion.”
Obi points and names it all.
I notice a stack of battered notebooks
on the green music studio sofa.
“Are these your notebooks?” I ask Obi.
I’m much more interested
in these than the instruments.
“They’re the band’s notebooks,”
Obi answers nonchalantly.
“We share everything here.”
Obi must see the confusion
on my face, so he explains.
“It’s our punk philosophy.
Anyone can play any instrument,
and we write collaboratively.
Everyone mucks in with lyrics,
