Restless and exciting in equal measure, these committed performances are convincing from the first dramatic intake of breath as they tussle with the ardours of love. In fact, Sam Crowther says he wanted voices to capture ‘the full range of colours and registers’, and this he has certainly achieved. Soprano Anne-Sophie Honoré thrillingly encapsulates the dawning dread of awakening from a sweet dream to face the disappointments of reality in the anonymous Dalle pene amorose (‘Of love’s torments’) exactly as if one had stumbled upon her tumultuous internal monologue.

This bundle of very particular and intense emotion grew exponentially when I switched to listening on headphones: the added intimacy made for a real head-in-harpsichord moment that reminded me how much cantatas, and especially continuo cantatas, are enhanced by the physicality of performance. And for these performances, the closer you can get the better, particularly in Benjamin Narvey’s chitarrone solo and Carissimi’s sensual duet cantata Semplicetta beltà (‘Innocent beauty’), in which Honoré is joined by soprano Julia Wischniewski, whose slightly richer voice adds new realms of colour to this show-stopper of overlapping, intertwining lines.

As so often in Italian cantatas, the emotions are very particular, and fleeting. I returned many times to Dopo incessante corso di lagrime (‘After shedding endless tears’), Stradella’s study of grief, for Wischniewski’s superbly controlled high register. But it was, perhaps, the final, anonymous cantata, Cadute erano alfine (‘Fallen at last’), in which Helen of Troy confronts herself in a looking glass, that moved me the most. With the precision of a pair of silver trumpets, the moralistic duet ‘Deh, mirate, o ciechi amanti’ (‘Ah, see, blind lovers’) is a reminder that such cantatas often spoke to a particular audience in-the-know. There are layers of reception history here we may never uncover, but with performances as good as this it’s fun to imagine the possibilities.