What next for Martinů fanciers? This, perhaps: the best of a clutch of releases exploring the music of his student, Jan Novák (1921‑84). No relation of Dvořák’s pupil, Vítězslav Novák, Jan was until recently best known for his film work, only one facet of a career impacted by the great military and ideological conflicts of the 20th century. Returning to Czechoslovakia in February 1948, just in time for the Communist coup, he stayed on but chose not to remain when, 20 years later, the promise of ‘Socialism with a human face’ was suppressed by force. His travels resumed with sporadic recognition for a varied output. From June 1947 until February 1948 he had been in the US, encountering Copland in Tanglewood and, crucially, Martinů in New York. Despite spending part of the Second World War as a forced labourer in Germany, he would end his days in Bavaria. His own music, or at least that part of it recorded here, smiles benignly in the face of adversity.

As with Weinberg and Shostakovich, the imitative or shared nature of the idiom could be considered problematic. Only you won’t hear more authentic performances than these, with one or other of the composer’s daughters involved in every rendition. Or perhaps you will. In a 15-disc set of vintage Czech Radio broadcasts (Supraphon, 5/22), Karel Ančerl pushes harder through the Concerto for two pianos and orchestra (1955). Then again, this new recording, made by Czech Radio in 2022, never feels too slow. Its dreamy central movement offers updated sonic balm amid the hustle and bustle.

The Concentus biiugis (1977) is flintier in mood and sonority, ‘biiugi’ being the Latin word for two animals yoked together – the composer was an obsessive Latin scholar who wrote poetry in the language of ancient Rome and deployed its tropes in his music. Dora Novak-Wilmington, whose new edition this is, partners Karel Košárek. They sound less clattery than Lucie Schinzelová and Kristýna Znamenáčková (on a rival Toccata Classics collection which does not otherwise overlap) and Tomáš Netopil secures a tighter, fuller response from the strings of the Prague Radio Symphony Orchestra. Flashes of Bartók, Poulenc and Stravinsky notwithstanding, Martinů still looms largest. Keyboard hammering near the start of the finale hints at the intransigence of Ustvolskaya or Górecki but Novák quickly reverts to amiable prattle.

What’s left is an accessible, sometimes tinkly frolic in fabulous landscapes, its content and structure said to be modelled on the opening words of a Horatian ode. Originally intended for flute and guitar, these Choreae vernales (‘Spring Dances’) are given in a 1980 version for flute, string orchestra, harp and celesta. There are helpful notes by Martin Flašar, which is not to say that Novák’s consummately professional, upbeat music is ever impenetrable or obscure.