At the heart of this curiously planned miscellany is Prokofiev’s G minor Violin Concerto, one of the last scores he completed to non-Soviet order, although it may equally indicate his desire to reconnect with the wider audience at home. Consistent with his quest for a ‘new simplicity’, earlier recordings tended to make the work sound seamless, whether fleet and fluid (Jascha Heifetz), generously direct (David Oistrakh) or impulsively lyrical (Kyung-Wha Chung). More recent champions on the other hand look for discontinuities, that vaguely Spanish finale no longer a celebration of local colour so much as a portent of horrors shortly to be unleashed. The concerto was premiered on December 1, 1935, in Madrid. Whatever you make of this, the score has never been more popular in the recording studio and Rosanne Philippens celebrates her 30th birthday with yet another fine version that deserves a hearing, without necessarily trumping its predecessors.

Her most obvious rival is Janine Jansen and not just because of shared nationality. Their recordings feature the same instrument, the ‘Barrère’ Stradivarius previously on loan to Jansen, who speaks warmly of her young compatriot in the accompanying booklet. Heard back to back, Philippens seems marginally less assured, compensating with a markedly individualistic take on tempo, nuance and timbre. Rivals, Jansen included, make the music feel more cogent but the switch to melting sweetness works beautifully in the second subject of the first movement, a tune that seems to come straight out of Romeo and Juliet. Then again, you might find Philippens’s treatment of the second movement’s opening arioso a little too gloopy. At the very end of the finale, her spirited dialogue disappoints only because the minatory bass drum is balanced rather discreetly in the generous acoustic. Jansen has the advantage of Vladimir Jurowski’s London Philharmonic and closer miking.

Like Viktoria Mullova in her recent remake, Philippens also plays Prokofiev’s Solo Violin Sonata of 1947, albeit with a freedom belying its origins as music designed for massed ranks of violin students. Next it’s back to the inter-war years for the Five Melodies, characterfully communicated with the support of the French-born pianist Julien Quentin. The March from The Love for Three Oranges in Heifetz’s brief arrangement is an unexpected addition, though not as unexpected as the final bonus, Prokofiev’s purely orchestral transcription of the Andante from the Fourth Piano Sonata made in the early 1930s. Neeme Järvi’s idiomatically glowering Chandos alternative is more conventionally coupled with similar rarities in physical format.