Even for an era of technicoloured orchestration, the opening of Mascagni’s Iris (1898) is a knockout. It’s night, and a solo double bass stirs at the very edge of audibility before the music swells, in ever-richer layers of orchestral colour, to the point where day breaks over ancient Japan in a choral sunburst, crowned with glistening bells. It’s a barnstormer of a prelude, and Mascagni and his librettist Illica haven’t finished with their hymn to the sun. Iris’s cyclical structure and ravishingly imagined sound world might well astonish anyone who still knows Mascagni primarily as the Cav in Cav and Pag.

Yet full-scale recordings, as well as productions, are rare; and that can’t solely be down to a plot whose sexual and racial attitudes make Illica’s later project Madama Butterfly look woke, and beside whose tenor anti-hero Osaka (the character names are a fairly good indication of the general level of cultural sensitivity) Pinkerton is practically a feminist. Iris is so young that when we first meet her, she’s still playing with dolls. The drama portrays her abduction into sex-slavery, her rejection by her disgusted father and (spoiler alert) a redemption of sorts as she lies dying in a gutter. As Brooks Atkinson once asked, can you draw sweet water from a foul well?

Well, you’ll have your own views. I’m here to tell you that this new recording – taken from live concert performances in Berlin in February 2020 – is a thoroughly serviceable and musically accomplished account. Felix Krieger marshals his Berlin forces with impressive command; there’s a real sense of forward movement, with an underlying tension at moments where other conductors might be tempted to wallow and an unsettling, understated urgency in the repellent-compelling scene where Iris pictures desire as a deadly octopus. The orchestra, too, is on its toes, clearly enjoying all those caressing phrases and the little touches – strumming harp, piquant woodwinds – where Mascagni applies his dabs of Japanese colour.

The central performances, likewise, are ardent and characterful. Karine Babajanyan’s singing as Iris has a luminous core, edged around with a tremulous fervour that adds a painful intensity to the girl’s forced journey from innocence to brutal experience. Like Samuele Simoncini as her would-be seducer Osaka, there’s an occasional harshness to Babajanyan’s voice under pressure, and a certain squally quality in the upper register, making their big Act 2 seduction scene (you can’t possibly call it a love duet) a slightly jarring listen. Certainly, in terms of sonorous beauty it’s no match for Plácido Domingo and Ilona Tokody on the (so far) definitive 1988 CBS recording (9/89).

But you might feel that a hint of vocal acid is more dramatically truthful, in which case you won’t mind the occasional flash of steel in Ernesto Petti’s generally ingratiating performance as the pimp Kyoto. You might also feel that David Oštrek’s firm, radiant baritone sounds almost too stylish (or at any rate, too youthful) for Iris’s elderly father, Il Cieco. More problematic is the sometimes ragged ensemble and recessed placing of the chorus – which, as the voice of the sun-god Jor, is effectively a fifth main character, and certainly needs to sound better focused than it does here.

Set against that is the unmistakable energy of a live performance, vivid recorded sound and a handsomely produced booklet that contains a full libretto and translation (rare enough these days to merit a special commendation) as well as designs from the original production, obtained from the Ricordi archive and reproduced in full colour. If you’re after a good modern recording with which to investigate this troublesome but musically gorgeous opera, you now have a choice: old-school sonic luxury with Domingo and co; or a less comfortable but no less credible experience with this new team. Your call.