Dunrobin Place

It's hard not to sound like a broken record when talking about the albums of today's technically gifted, highly adept young generation of folk musicians. Their musicianly chops are beyond question. Their passion for, and knowledge of, the music they play is clear. But why does it always have to sound so conservative? After all, when you listen to music made by teens and 20-somethings in other genres – hip-hop, dubstep, metal, indie – even when the music's awful there's usually an attitude, a sense of style and purpose that is not merely about music, not just about playing your instrument really well.

Which Matheu Watson undoubtedly does, of course. He is scarily proficient on an intimidating number of instruments. The sheer scale of his work on this album is breathtaking. You have to remind yourself that you are not listening to a well-practiced, hyper-rehearsed folk ensemble: this is all the work of one man, overdubbing fearsomely detailed fiddle on top of feverishly complex mandolin parts. This album is an instrumental tour deforce of jigs, reels and hornpipes from a pan-Celtic mix of fiddle traditions. And there is the occasional peak, at which Watson's excitement for playing becomes palpable. But for the most part this is an album lacking in ups and downs. It's like hearing a CV, rather than being taken on an emotional journey.