Regarding Dvořák’s Concerto, the obvious first-stop comparison is with Frank Peter Zimmermann’s 2013 recording, also with the Czech Philharmonic under Bĕlohlávek, released last year as part of Decca’s six-CD set devoted to the composer’s complete symphonies and concertos. Both versions were recorded in Prague’s Rudolfinum; but while Decca opts for a fairly natural balance, Supraphon prefers to keep the soloist closer to hand. This is a keen-edged, sharply focused production that seems to mirror Bĕlohlávek’s marginally more dramatic conducting. Where Zimmermann’s relative refinement harks back to Nathan Milstein (whose two stereo recordings for EMI remain among the most poised ever made), the young Josef Paček reminded me more both of his great forebear Josef Suk and, at times, of David Oistrakh.

It’s mostly to do with the firm cut of his bowing, the clarity of his articulation and the sureness of his rhythmic attack. His tone is sweetly expressive but he varies it according to the dictates of the passing musical phrase, both in the Dvořák Concerto and in the dizzyingly fanciful Suk Fantasy, an expansive 23 minutes’ worth that sees him approximate the throes of musical passion, a fair match for Suk Jnr and Neumann.

As to the Janáček Concerto, which was pieced together from sketches in 1988 and is often redolent of both the Sinfonietta and the Capriccio, Paček is perhaps less intense than Thomas Zehetmair with the Philharmonia (Apex), though Bĕlohlávek’s Czech accompaniment has marginally more flavour than its rival under Heinz Holliger. A new version from James Ehnes with the Bergen Philharmonic conducted by Edward Gardner (Chandos – see page 34) makes the most of the work’s lyrical elements, but this Supraphon version captures the Concerto’s strident quirkiness to a T. Indeed, viewed as a whole, Paček’s programme takes us on a stimulating 66-minute journey from dancing Romanticism to bold pre-modernism, and it is certainly one I’ll want to take again – fairly soon at that.