Hidden in a shifty room under the kitchen of the corner curry shop, an acoustic window looks inside of a world once alive with electrical activity, awaiting to be opened. Exactly eight steps down and three to the right, a slightly curving path leads you there. You step into a range of frequencies, a space smelling of defiance, or is that just the curry? The room holds what seems to be the remains of an old newsroom. Or a broadcasting station of sorts. A range of unintentional carpets draped all over the walls and spread scarcely on the floor. Two tables, a beaten microphone that reads ‘CHI G RADI ’, jumbled in rat’s nest of cables, and a box full of tapes.
