Think film noir – dusky rendezvous in dark alleys, the sound of passing trains, a red-lipsticked lounge singer with sloshing drink, the fat man upstairs obscured by billowing cigar smoke. Then add a hobo with banjo in hand, a delicate maiden in a field of yellow flowers and a raucous Greek chorus dancing the jitterbug. Wrap them together in lush arrangements of instruments, with poetry poignant enough to make you hold your breath. Give them the names of gods and mortals; let them sing an ancient but timely tale of love and loss, of power and pain. What more could you want?