The door is surrounded by a sea of shoes: even the audience must remove them and sit cross-legged on the floor. And this is no ordinary concert. At the front is a spectacular altar consisting of musical instruments arranged in multiple layers; even more striking is the central platform filled with masks, flowers, bowls of food and sundry mysterious objects. A group of young students come in and sit together, some giggling, others looking confused; the elderly ritualist enters and begins a monotone chant. When he has finished he announces the title of a composition to be played by the musicians arranged behind xylophones, gong-circles, drums, percussion and a thick wooden wind instrument: ‘Sathukan!’ (‘greeting the teacher’). Initially the music is a sweep of seemingly unrelated pitches, an outpouring of activity by each individual musician that is hard to grasp: despite the percussion, it’s difficult to perceive anything resembling a measure or a phrase. Finally, after many more such pieces, each student comes forward to receive a ritual ‘first lesson’ either on the large gong-circle or the flute, in which the teacher holds the student's hands to simulate the playing of the piece. Each then receives a soot-mark on the forehead, and over one ear a piece of banana leaf with a flower. Having greeted the teacher (khru, guru in Thai) whose lineage extends to the gods themselves – since all knowledge derives from them – each student is now eligible to be instructed in music.