Picture in your mind two of the giants of British folk rock, Andy Irvine and Donal Lunny, both pillars upon which the monumental band Planxty was built. It is 1994, and they are in Australia, Lunny producing and both playing on an album by a young woman born only a long shout away from Bantry Bay, Maireid Sullivan. They have assembled to produce Dancer, Sullivan's first solo effort, half a world away from their Irish roots.

I have all sorts of reasons for buying music. Sometimes I pick it up as a matter of course, carefully building archival collections of certain artists. Every now and again, a fetching graphic will snag my eye, and the wallet will unlimber. On two memorable occasions, I bought discs only because of the whimsical names of the acts portrayed therein (tasteful discretion forbids the utterance of the names in this forum). Sometimes, I'll go trolling to see what I can find away from the "name acts." Dancer was gathered up on just such an expedition. I saw the involvement of Lunny and Irvine, and noted that this was the first issued disc by the label (always a plus with me, as I'm always fascinated to see what prompts someone to finally issue music under a given imprint). So home it went with me.

Because I bought the Gordon Lightfoot boxed set on the same trip, it was a while before I got around to Sullivan. When I finally did, though, I was in for quite a surprise. (One thing about "discovering" someone for the very first time is the absence of expectations, which can be very liberating.) The disc opens quietly but well, with "Colour Me," an original tune which set a pleasant mood for what would follow. The third cut, a medley of an Ereskay Love Lilt and "An 'Dro," was well structured, with the use of banjo lending something unexpected to the mix. On "Dancer", the title cut, Sullivan covers something of the same ground covered by Loreena McKennitt (though the production was not as lush on this disc, and the charts are a little thin through the instrumental breaks), delving into the rhythms and chord progressions of the Near East for an 8-plus minute opus.

The balance of the outing is pleasing to the ear, with the reads of traditional tunes such as "Waly, Waly," "Sally Gardens" and "Connemara Cradle Song" playing somewhat more favorably than the balance of the original material. The disc closes with "She Moved Through the Fair," a favorite of mine, and something that probably would have led me to buy this regardless, as it is one of the standard tunes that I try and collect as many variants to as I can. This treatment is an especially fine version, with the tempo slowed down considerably and the overall accompaniment consisting of sustained chords and ethereal figures which carry the listener through this sweetly rendered lament. Quite a splendid ending to an album which is full of strong pluses and only occasional minuses. If you get the chance, you should give this album (or other work of Sullivan, who turns up with regularity on Celtic compilations) your full attention.