Take Cockaigne: Wordsworth certainly knows his way around the metropolis but neither is he, in all honesty, the most personable nor illuminating guide. I miss the beaming affection, tumbling fantasy and twinkling mischief so evident on those irrepressible 1950s mono offerings from Barbirolli (EMI) and van Beinum (Beulah). Surely the introductory measures ought to make you chuckle (the marking in the score is, after all, scherzando)? It’s a similar story in Enigma, where Elgar’s ‘friends pictured within’ fail to spring to inspirational life. Right from the outset, tension levels are set worryingly low, with a pervading air of caution that surfaces with a vengeance in ‘Troyte’ (whose timpani fusillades and swirling strings should have you on the edge of your seat). Granted, the magical hush distilled by the principal clarinet in the penultimate variation gives a tantalising hint at what might have been but I’m not convinced by Wordsworth’s plunge straight into the finale (ignoring Elgar’s double bar-line), which in turn runs out of steam long before the end. Compare this with, say, the towering LSO/Monteux account (Decca), where the Frenchman’s conception builds with all the unstoppable force of nature itself. The last two of the five Pomp and Circumstance Marches fare best, though eyebrows will most definitely be raised by the curious decision to omit the second repeat in No 2 (clocking in at well under three minutes). In a competitive field, this merely efficient newcomer just doesn’t cut the mustard.