You know when every aspect of an album just sings? Well, this is one of those, and not only because cellist Bruno Philippe’s lyricism is as much to the fore as ever. Here we have three French-Belgian masterworks, punctuated by three short Fauré pieces, adding up to an expressively wide-ranging and satisfyingly cohesive programme encompassing just over 70 years of cello-writing; also the perpetuation of two longstanding, musically important human relationships, pianist Tanguy de Williencourt being the regular duo partner and contemporary with whom Philippe first recorded in 2014, aged 21 (Evidence, 9/15), and Christoph Eschenbach the mentor who partnered him for his first concerto disc in 2019 (Prokofiev – Harmonia Mundi, 12/19), also with the Frankfurt Radio Symphony Orchestra.

Written in 1872, Saint-Saëns’s First Cello Concerto represents a challenging stylistic tightrope with its combination of Schumannesque turbulence and French noblesse and delicacy. Philippe and Eschenbach have its number. Also its broad architectural sweep – pleasures such as the first movement’s skillful balancing act between energetically flowing urgency and time hanging suspended, and Philippe giving even his most impassioned lines enough room to breathe – and its loving chamber dialogue, into which has been studded a wealth of dynamic and colouristic detail: the warm, suave definition of the orchestra’s sforzando at bar 63 in the first movement (1'48"); the softly tentative, glassily polished, airily balletic tiptoes on which its muted strings introduce the central minuet, before fondly latching themselves underneath Philippe’s heart-prickingly graceful song; the love with which the bassoon engages him in duet soon afterwards; and always, Philippe’s sensitive elegance and the tonal beauty he draws from his instrument’s deepest depths to its highest harmonics. Listen in the first movement, for instance, to the tender, smooth control with which he lands then shapes his pianissimo top A in bar 72 (2'05"), or to his deft, expressive handling of the Molto allegro finale’s terrifyingly exposed ascent from meaty bottom C up to where the angels fly (4'58").

When it comes to the sonatas, I could wax lyrical about the elfin playfulness Philippe and de Williencourt bring to the 1948 Poulenc Sonata’s Ballabile – and note, if you prefer this movement’s pizzicato to sound like shapely raindrops rather than bullishly percussive, then this is the reading for you. Then I should wax lyrical over the pearly freshness, chamber sympathy and panoply of colour with which de Williencourt meets the concerto-like piano-writing of the Franck Sonata’s Allegro. It’s also a nice touch for Nicolas Southon’s excellent booklet note essay to remind us that cellists have every right to embrace this violin sonata written as a wedding present to Eugene Ysaÿe – that not only did Franck give his blessing for cellist Jules Delsart to prepare this arrangement, published in 1888, but that he was actually preparing to write a cello sonata in late 1890 when death overtook him. Most striking of all with the Franck Sonata, though, is the degree of taut, softly bleak, black isolation that Philippe and de Willienwourt find in its Recitativo-Fantasia – listen from around 3'50" – after which the concluding Allegretto poco mosso plays out like a cathartic struggle back up to the light. Something comparable in fact also hovers over their Poulenc Cavatine, which is the scene of some of the programme’s closest, most intense and evenly weighted dialogue.

In the context of the above, Philippe’s quiet composure and long-lined glow through ‘Après une rêve’ feels achingly poised between lament and redemption; although if you’re listening digitally, it’s with a tenderly sober ‘Le cygne’ bonus track that he gently closes the book. As for the two other Fauré pieces, the disc’s curtain-raiser is the short Romance he composed in 1894 for cellist Jules Griset of the Geloso Quartet, and here it’s perfection: Philippe’s softly exploratory, mystery-flecked progression through its initial rising statement, then the gentlest switching of the emotional dial – we’re talking millimetres, but the effect is profound – as he glides into its serene onwards flight. And tucked between the Saint-Saëns and the Poulenc, a gracefully articulated Papillon (‘Butterfly’) – another 1894 composition, delicately fluttering outer sections encasing a long-lined melodic centre.

Engineering-wise, the concerto is a live concert recording from Frankfurt’s hr-Sendesaal, the hall’s gentle bloom subtly present. The chamber works were captured by a different team in sessions at the La Corroie concert hall in Entraigues-sur-la-Sorgue. The harmony between their respective brands of warmly polished immediacy, though, is impressive.

Will Philippe give us a recording orbiting around the second Saint-Saëns concerto at some point? One can only hope so.