Locke's usually pretty easy-going, and not one to be bothered by a bit of noise. He does enjoy music, but he could barely call this 'music'. Right now, he's sitting on his bed, knees up against his chest and hands over his ears, directing a half-glare, half-wince over at his roommate.

"I think your guitar's still outta tune, pal."

Was that even supposed to be music? Sure didn't sound like any music he's ever heard. Granted, he had no idea what music was like on anybody else's world, but he was still sure this wasn't it.