Inside, I discover that Old Hag's ensemble is part of the themed joys of Noir Blue. The interior is set out as a kind of bastard copy of an Indian temple. Decorated in eye-watering colours, it looks as though a five-year-old loose with a paint palette.
Walls and ceiling are draped in tomato-red, frog-green and that gaudy shade of gold that make knocked-off designer watches look counterfeit. To call it a 'riot' of colour is inadequate. This verges on full-scale insurrection. But the explosion-in-a-paint-factory decor is a mere background for brass lamps, burners sprouting incense sticks, statues of that cross-legged, elephant-headed deity, and goddesses with more limbs than a millipede.
The music would be okay if you enjoy listening to the sitar, or at least, the genuine article. But this sounds like something aired across the reception area of the cheaper kind of psychologist's office.
Or is it psychiatrist?