The morning this arrived, I played all three discs consecutively, without a break. Three and a half hours of just allowing my being to dissolve in the luxuriance of this strange and mysterious music. As the hours passed I more than once thought, I have been waiting all my life for this music, yet I cannot for the life of me explain to myself why I should feel this way. Sorabji, is like a musical Joyce, or Proust, generating an endless stream of consciousness, in which next to nothing ever really happens. There are long periods with little dynamic variation, no obvious crescendi to move towards or away from. It has a fractal topography devoid of landmarks by which to map the unfolding of its exquisitely intricate textures. There is quite literally no end of melody, but none of it is more obviously memorable than any other. The essence of Sorabji's voice though is in his harmony. One has the impression that in the foreground we have a quintessential Romanticism, a Chopin-like tonality. In the background though, subdued, as if from an adjoining room with the door slightly ajar, Harrison Birtwistle is providing a parallel commentary full of pungent atonality and asymmetric cross-rhythms. The result is something very modern, but not modernistic with its usual connotations, there is too much grace and elegance for that. Music lovers who insist on form or narrative structure will probably quite quickly lose patience with this music, but those who are happy to detach themselves from their earthly bodies awhile, and float in a radiant world of hallucinogenic detail might well experience it as a spiritual homecoming. As such I perceive this to be music superlatively attuned to the mystic temperament.