The dinted old No.1 tram crunkles on its curve past the mature gallery, down South Melbourne decline. Two twenty-somethings clamber on, create studio space on sun-filled back seats. Eager, they rap into their gadgets. One sets a fast monotony drum, over which the other raps text into his oblong, oblivious to Victorian back streets. He talks New York in broad Australian: it will come into relief on playback. Old shade trees of Albert Park take March heat. No.1 manoeuvres another bend. 20+ runs out of rhymes for ‘money’ and they laugh, playing with urban forms, readying for the next take.