It's heartening to see an artist so far into his career, still capable of polarising the listening public with new work. Had Sylvian continued to bang out joyless copies of Secrets of the Beehive, as many seem to wish, he would have become an irrelevant caricature long ago. Instead, he has consistently reinvented himself, with each new album offering a surprise. Each time, he loses some fans and gains some new ones. This album is no different. In fact it's quite funny to see people say "Well, I liked Manafon but this is just a step too far!" Fujikura's strings are sublime: they bob and weave, bringing drama and movement where Manafon was trapped in deathly stasis. Harmonically (though not rhythmically) reminiscent of Steve Reich at times, they underpin Sylvian's vocals, adding a rich tonality to these variations not found on the original. The result is a highly rewarding listen. The two Emily Dickinson poems are beautiful, too, but different to the Fujikura material and seem to want to belong to another collection. And that's my only quibble with this record. I wish it was all just Sylvian singing over Fujikura's strings. Of course, that would complete his epic, career-long journey from pop to contemporary concert music. Should he dare? Is a self-confessed "non-musician" allowed to occupy that rarefied territory? The two Dickinson poems -- with their pleasing Nick Drake melancholia, strummed guitar and familiar atmospherics courtesy of Bang, Honoré and Henriksen -- suggest he's hesitating on the brink, just in case there's no way back.