Some of the titles and instruments used here (Tibetan singing bowls, bird calls, finger cymbals, rainsticks) conjured up visions of beads, beards, hand-knitted bread and sandal-tracks in muddy West Country fields, but mercifully there is more to the music. From arrangements of medieval plainchant to pieces written within the last decade via the work of crucial figures like Alfonso X and Victoria, Chanticleer make a beautiful noise unto various gods, building an atmosphere that is both sensually and spiritually seductive; but here and there one is reminded that seduction often involves deluding the seducee into valuing surface above substance.

In the booklet, musician and psychologist Silvia Nakkach comments: ‘Sacred chant nourishes us in ways we don’t even realise…we open our hearts…and become familar with the “enchanters”, who journey through the magic of song to attract the spirit power.’ I’ll confess to attending the odd chanting workshop myself, and I found the experience very therapeutic, so I’m fairly sympathetic to this viewpoint, but doesn’t the best music nourish us and make such connections anyway? These feelings are part of the experience of listening to works as diverse as Bach’s cello suites, Coltrane’s Impulse recordings, Stockhausen’s Hymnen, a Robert Johnson blues or an improvisation by Ravi Shankar.

The highlight is the setting of a hymn to the Virgin by the 19th-century Romanian monk Nectarie Vlahul. The contemporary pieces are a mixed bunch, taking in a spot of ethnomusicology or nodding to modern classics like Ligeti’s Requiem and Stockhausen’s Stimmung, the best of the bunch being Past Life Melodies (because of its impressive sonorities) and the mock-Byzantine Grace to You.