Although he wrote a good number of works for the cello throughout his career, Martinu’s three numbered sonatas date from the last 20 years of his life. The First (1939) is the most compact and turbulent, reflecting the troubled times of its composition both generally in Europe and personally for Martinu. Zappa and Mainolfi prove fine exponents of its thrusting, vigorous momentum, which recurs in the invigorating finale of the Second (1941). Both players prove near-ideal exponents of the latter work’s robust lyricism, present in the slower sections of the opening Allegro and in the searching central Largo. The best of the three, this is perhaps the 20th-century cello sonata par excellence.

The Third (1952) opens with one of Martinu’s most inspired ideas, a serene sequence of chords on the piano which contains a world of experience. Mainolfi takes it too swiftly, losing something of its tranquillity (Daniel Adni – accompanying Rafael Sommer in wonderful accounts of the complete cello-and-piano music, issued by the Rafael Sommer Trust and Dvorák Society – is ideal), though the movement settles quickly into a fine account. The one fly in the ointment in Claves’ close-miked recording is some all-too-audible breathing in moments of intensity – presumably Zappa’s.

For some, noises from the players rather than their instruments are perfectly acceptable so they will no doubt not mind the audible breathing characteristic of Kristine Blaumane. As with Zappa, she is a technically fine player (and an occasional first cellist with Kremerata Baltica). Her passionate playing is heard to best effect in Barber’s apprentice Sonata (1932), written at just 22, rather Brahmsian in its late-romantic harmonies and gestures. The compound central span, a tiny Scherzo rammed between two equally brief halves of a slow section, is unconvincing but provides a welcome respite between the two darker outer movements. Grieg’s A minor Sonata of 1881-83 is structurally sounder and has proved to be a popular work, so it is surprising its composer was so dismissive of it. Yet he accompanied several cellists over the years (including Casals in 1906 – oh, for a recording of that!) and I think would have warmed to Blaumane’s ardour. Ably accompanied throughout by Katsnelson, she finishes with a fine account of Martinu’s valedictory chamber piece, the Variations on a Slovak Theme (1959).