The man reaches across the counter to place a shiny compact disc in front of an unsmiling clerk, presently engaged with a small stack of paperwork between the two identical glass plates shielding him on either side. “All of the paperwork is here, all correctly filled out?” the clerk looks up as he inquires. The man nods shyly but eagerly in affirmation, as though to ensure the clerk he will gladly answer any question if it will lead to the unimaginable final goal. The clerk quickly scans a few pages and abruptly looks directly into the eyes of his customer. “All of this was created using fully licensed and authorized equipment?” The man hastily replies yes, yes of course it was. “Of what kind?” Another question from the clerk, this time with brow furrowed. Realizing how many times the clerk must hear this on a daily basis, the man looks down at his feet and sniffles before replying, “Just a Macintosh computer, mostly. And sometimes a Korg.” The clerk stares back, unimpressed, wetting his thumb and lifting a pen as the last page in the man’s stack of paperwork is reached. He directs the man’s attention to a field on the form in front of him, the one for the name of the presently unauthorized project. “The name? Yes, of course. It’s Porn Sword Tobacco, sir, P…O…R…” He’s interrupted by the raised hand of the clerk. “I can manage the spelling, let’s see whether this materiel is suitable to be licensed”. He places the disc into a stereo device beside him, the sign overhead reading "POST-ROCK INDECENCY COMMITTEE."

The disc can be heard spinning within the stereo and the aptly named “Welcome” washes over the two with a bubbly children’s piano set among satirical flute. The intro lasts hardly a minute and finishes with the clerk looking down to note the track duration. He pauses over the form’s “genre” field, leaving it blank, instead pressing the play button to begin the second track. After nearly fives minutes of “En Ny Morgon” (the man nervously shifting from one foot to another) the clerk finishes jotting notes about the warm piano chord repeat and playful stuttering computer background noise. He looks up at the man, but the track did not contain enough variation to merit a question—the clerk moves on to “I Love Riding My Bicycle.” Another four minutes pass (the man now wiping away a small bead of perspiration at his hairline) before the clerk abruptly presses stop and looks intensely at the man. “Is this how the entire disc proceeds?” The man nods up and down. “Are you familiar with the work of a Mr. Ulrich Schnauss or that of The Flashbulb?” This time the man indicates that he is not. “Yes, yes I’m sure…” the clerk mumbles and presses play once again.

The interrogation-style disc review proceeds in much the same manner over the next several of the submission’s sixteen components. “Spectrum Campfire” is so far the only track to receive a check mark in the form’s “positive” column, though the man notices the “original” column continues to remain without check-mark. Shortly into track eight, “The Lavalife,” the clerk again stabs at the stop button on the stereo. “What is the meaning of this, then?” The clerk is clearly referring to a curse-laden monologue in ebonics that contrasts immensely with the mood of the tracks heard thus far. The man merely switches his weight-bearing leg, a meager look on his face.

At this point the clerk quickly flips several switches on the stereo, which causes the audio to come from several smaller speakers behind him at a much lower volume. “I think I’ve heard enough enough, Mr… Henrik Jonsson. We will listen to the remainder of your disc at a lower volume as I finish this paperwork on the off chance that I hear something of interest. However, I must inform you at this point that I cannot certify your disc as being suitable for listen.” Over the next five minutes the clerk furiously writes and stamps a variety of wordy and largely unimportant assessment fields on various forms that he obtains from various sources. In the background strange jungle beats combine with elevator music noises on “Cave 4b - 50 Clicks Northwest,” the clerk clearly becoming eager to reach the next applicant in line. His final stamp of rejection strikes a page in the stack of forms during the disc’s final track, “Goodbye.” He hastily removes the disc from the stereo and hands it back with a dismissive hand wave to Mr. Jonsson, whose unsmiling Swedish face is caught for a moment in the disc’s mirror finish. The man walks out of the office of the Post-Rock Indecency Committee, unhappy with the judgment placed upon his project by the PRIC clerk.

-Brendan Kraft