A few months into his stay here, the space recalls the kind of adolescent dream scenario in which your parents encourage your artistic endeavors without necessarily requiring that you clean up after you complete them. There is a full ashtray perched precariously on the bed, and the floor is a jumble of fast food takeaway containers, empty cigarette boxes, newspapers, books and assorted music equipment, the most immediately visible of which are a graffiti-tagged MIDI keyboard and a clarinet, which leans dangerously close to a ketchup-stained plate. “I love it here,” says Marshall, grinding up some weed for a joint. “I can make beats in bed. I can make beats naked. I can make beats on the toilet. I can make beats in the tub.”