There’s a glissando of strings, like waves breaking on a shore, then a man’s voice, rich and dark, intones the most enigmatic opening lines in pop history: “Some velvet morning when I’m straight/I’m gonna open up your gate/And maybe tell you ’bout Phaedra/And how she gave me life/And how she made it end/Some velvet morning when I’m straight.”

In response, a woman’s voice, light as a summer’s breeze, chants an invocation: “Flowers growing on a hill, dragonflies and daffodils/ Learn from us very much, look at us but do not touch/Phaedra is my name . . . ”