Eric Wubbels’s self-referential deconstruction of Schubert’s song, Goethe’s poem and the mythology hits hard; patterns emerge and diverge, punctuated by piano drones and spiky, scary cello sounds, coalescing in a march of fearful industrial temperament – the sounds half human, half machine-made – that just stops.

George Lewis quotes Plato in his programme note and Spinner starts slowly, but after a while not only does the music begin speaking to you but the instrument itself does as well. It’s not all cerebral; after a sexy succession of sensuous swoops and slides, the cello utters cries like a high-pitched whale using flautando harmonics, after which the drawn-out ending has an eerie eternal quality.

Written in collaboration with Roberts, Cenk Ergün’s Aman opens with audiophile splatters of notes accentuated by the stereo spread, leading to a dialogue between disembodied versions of the cello accompanied by monstrous bass growls, urban noises and mysterious scutterings. The energy resumes before the piece can entirely slink away and the cello finally makes recognisable noises ending in cute mewings.

Nothing really ever happens in Daví Brynjar Franzson’s The Cartography of Time but there is a definite sense that there is something valuable to be gained by staying with it on the assumption that there is some greater structure in place. There are long, prolonged wails that suggest there’s actual music frozen somewhere in the glacial flow.