I’d like to think that few people would dissent from the opinion that Mendelssohn’s Octet is a masterpiece – and not just because he was a teenager when he wrote it. This performance, a tale of two string quartets, one from Paris, the other from London, has much going for it, not least exact ensemble and impassioned address, although the first movement is a little too driven – it becomes wearing – and the Scherzo could be lighter and less presto, more playful. But beforehand the horribly aggressive and loud transfer needs taming, by at least half, and then the reproduction is tolerable. Interpretatively, the crazy speed adopted for the Finale doesn’t help recommendation – one admires the collective virtuosity and precision if at the expense of the music. Best is the slow movement, lyrically flowing and with a wonderment, however fleeting, that is affecting.

George Enescu’s C-major Octet, Opus Seven (1900), is also in four movements and expansively designed, close to forty minutes in this account. It is new to me. It’s impressive. Not for the first time Enescu puts his own gloss on musical tradition while ensuring that his Romanian roots are evident and engaging. Once again the performance is quite something – almost computer-designed – and while the eight players are as-one it’s not difficult to imagine a reading more affectionate and less-concerned with playing the bejeebers out of it, although there are moments when the group turns on a sixpence to relax and poeticise, the third-placed slow movement for example, sultry, reminding of Ravel. It’s as if this combination lacks for a middle-ground regarding tempo and projection. Nevertheless this is a spirited and, at times, seductive account of this likeably individual work, lavishly contrapuntal, the Finale determined. Well, it would be. Erato 2173299729.