In the days of gramophones and black and white TV, you find yourself trapped in a broken elevator with Carlo Mastrangelo, Fred Milano, Angelo D’Aleo and their starry-eyed frontman Dion DiMucci — four confident, well-dressed and totally ginchy American guys in their early 20s. You're all cramped and sweaty, and the heat in here is a sharp contrast to the winter outside.

Carlo: "Check it out, fellas. Looks like we got some company in here."

Carlo, Fred and Angelo turn around to see you in the corner and lean coolly against the handrails, with Angelo standing on the toe-kick, looking down to quietly straighten his collar, Carlo giving you a disarming smile, and Fred smirking (he does that a lot). Dion doesn't notice you — he stays in his reverie, periodically glancing up at the ceiling as though on another world.