I listened and ignored the primary melodic material. What’s left is a latticework of patterns, detailed and repetitive, energetic from the distance of 60ft away in a concert hall, but pornographically mesmerising with a score in the hand and the volume knob turned up dangerously high. In my most narcissistic moments, I like to imagine some 14-year-old kid sitting on her floor in Russia, blissing out on the pointillistic bumps and grinds I constructed in a cabin in Vermont.

This isn’t to say that Stravinsky’s orchestration was the only thing that appealed to me; I began learning the piano reduction, which allowed me to prolong my repetitive obsessions. In the Danse Russe of the first tableau, a bassline walks down a fourth, then a fifth — you hear this in Abba, you hear it in Beethoven.

A circular rhythm machine of oboe and bassoon twitters, and the bass comes in again. This time, though, it doesn’t hit the money note, but a terrifying, disorienting, evil f-natural. The oboe doesn’t care, and starts up the food processor again, merrily chirping along. The bassline comes back and plays the “good” note again. It’s a perfect cycle.