ils Frahm comes bursting through the door of the retro-style café where we’ve agreed to meet: ‘I’m here to pick you up,’ the musician, producer and composer says, slightly out of breath. We emerge into a pitch-black wintry Berlin evening, walk briskly down the street, and turn a corner. A dim, warm light emanates from behind a wall of large windows. One is open and Frahm promptly climbs through, beckoning me to follow. He pulls it closed, latches the metal frame in place, and makes a comment about how the window-as-entrance saved us a significant amount of time in the cold. As we walk through a thick wooden doorway towards the source of light, what unfolds is something from a musician’s dream: an eclectic array of instruments –
