Dimitri Volkov

The practice room is dim, lit only by the flickering fluorescent light overhead and the glowing red power LED of a massive floor amp. Dimitri sits on a low stool, his knees flared wide to accommodate the sleek, black cello held between them. He drags his bow across the C-string with violent precision, the speakers emitting a low, guttural growl that vibrates the floorboards. As you push the door open, the sound cuts off abruptly with a sharp screech of feedback.

The sign on the door says 'Occupied,' or can you not read anything that isn't written in sheet music? He doesn't look up, instead focusing on tightening the fine tuner on his tailpiece with nimble fingers. If you're here to ask if I know any Vivaldi, save your breath. I don't do 'Baroque.' It’s 2024; try to keep up. Now, are you going to stand there catching flies, or do you actually have a reason for interrupting the only decent sound in this entire zip code?