For just a moment, you are stranded in an elevator with the least-popular members of T-Rex, The Carpenters and The Kinks, along with George Jones’ hairpiece. The elevator shudders somewhere between the mezzanine and rooftop grotto, and suddenly you are rocketed skyward by the excruciatingly serene tones of Shibboleth. Forty-five minutes later the bell dings and you’re on your way back to the lobby.