The Jacobin is a strange but attractive mixture of high drama and rustic colour. Its title suggests a serious political subject, and ostensibly the main plot involves Bohus, the estranged son of Count Vilém, accused of being a revolutionary Jacobin by the cousin who covets his inheritance.

But, as Dvorák himself noted, the sub-plot involving village life and the love of gamekeeper Jirí for Terinka tended to take over. The folky scenes of schoolchildren and villagers are delightful and reflect the influence that a village schoolmaster-musician had on the young composer.

The Wexford performance on Fonè certainly brings out that lighter side but on hearing it again I find the dryness of the theatre acoustic obtrusive, though one’s ears can adjust. This new version, taken from two studio performances in Cologne recorded by West German Radio, is quite different. Gerd Albrecht, who has recorded many of Dvorák’s major works, understands the Czech folk idiom and points rhythms delectably; but by using far larger forces he makes the balance between high drama and rustic colour far more even: one is forced to take the mortal threat to Bohus from the evil Adolf far more seriously.

Michal Lehotsky, a tenor sweetly Slavic in timbre, was the Fonè Jirí and again gives an animated performance. Lívia Ághová as Terinka, again both Slavic in timbre and sweet-toned, is charmingly provocative. Though Andrea Danková as Julie (Bohus’s wife) has a more pronounced vibrato and a tendency to shrillness under pressure, the weight of the voice fits the character well. As Bohus, Marcin Bronikowski, lyrical in his early scenes, rises splendidly to the challenge of the final appeals to his father.

In the key role of Benda, tenor Eberhard Lorenz paints a colourful portrait of the schoolmaster without caricaturing him, and the fine bass, Christoph Stephinger, sings nobly as the Count. As Adolf, Mark Holland sounds gritty at times, but that seems apt for such a villain, and he sings with fine projection in his big moments. The balance of solo voices is not consistent, occasionally being too distant. The crisper playing, fuller sound and the finer, more incisive singing of the choruses are big plus points.

The set is neatly packaged with a libretto and translation, unlike the Fonè set, although it is on three discs rather than two: the gain is having each act complete on a single disc. As I’ve said before, this is a work that should have become a rival to The Bartered Bride. It’s absurdly neglected away from its home ground, and this new set deserves to bring it wider popularity.