Kevin Volans is white and currently lives in County Donegal, but his music—at least as represented by the present collection—shows how closely he has observed the black culture of his native South Africa. In the accompanying notes Volans takes pains to stress his allegiance to Western ideas and techniques; but to the casual listener the ethnicity of his work is more immediately striking. Nothing here is pastiche, yet the spirit of African music is always palpable: its rhythmic ingenuity, alluding constantly to dance; its slippery melodiousness and microtonal tunings; above all its cheery spirits, redolent of music that celebrates community values rather than the isolation of the Western art composer.
It was a stroke of genius to frame the record with two versions of White man sleeps. Curiously, the later transcription of the piece (for string quartet) is placed first, its homogeneous texture and equal-tempered tuning standing in much the same relationship to the original version (for two microtonally-tuned harpsichords, viola da gamba and percussion) as white sugar does to molasses. Even in its refined state, however, the piece is full of flavour, releasing an infectious energy (firmly rooted in steady pulsation, although there the connection with minimalism ends) and a stream of deliciously limpid tunes. Those with a less sweet tooth may find the rawness of the original instrumentation even more addictive.
For the same scoring (minus the viola da gamba) and in much the same spirit as the original version of White man sleeps is Mbira, a ten-minute essay in metrical displacement. Against the steady pulsing of drums, the two harpsichords first expose melodic patters that fall clearly into metrical patterns, then nudge them out of phase with the beat, leaving the listener in a hopelessly tangled world of hemiolas and cross-rhythms. It is excellent fun, and all the more pleasurable for its utter innocence, unsullied by the complex harmonic language of Western tonality. The remaining work, She who sleeps for solo percussionist, is played with warmth and humour by Robyn Schulkowsky, even if the recording lacks immediacy and borders on inaudibility during its long final section. Altogether a stunning record, and warmly recommended.'