There’s something restless in Rory --- like wherever he is, he won’t be there for long. Perched on the edge of a swivel chair, legs drawn up to his chest, he pours over a digital screen and overlays save files while Apollo sprawls over the rug. "Mate," Rory starts, after a long moment, headphones clamped over his ears to save the drummer the trauma of listening to it over and over, each second squeezed out to pulp. "We're gonna have to re-record the drums. On the eighteenth bar you're half a beat out." A drawn out breath puffs from his lungs as he volts from the edge of the chair and almost trips over an amp lead, pacing back and forth before a Indian Mandella, the studio kitted out with kitschy fabrics designed to 'inspire' that are really just migraine-inducing. "I know you want it to be like... fresh or whatever. But it just sounds sloppy. You can get that gritty feel to it and still be structurally sound. But for a first EP, we can't afford to make mistakes."