It seems to be Paganini week. Last night was his first and second violin concertos, played admirably and accurately by Rudolf Koelman (a violinist whose Paganini 24 caprices I have long admired).

Koelman is a very fine violinist and sails through Paganini's pyrotechnics more or less spotlessly. Interestingly, the CD also contains a performance of Rossini's contemporaneous overture to Matilde di Shabran and one realises that Paganini could easily have written this overture, and Rossini the violin concertos (at least, the orchestral parts). Both composers wrote in the highly spiced operatic idiom of early 19th century Italy, with swooning, sentimental arias and histrionic climaxes. I have always suspected that a performance by the great Nicolò would have been an occasion of high drama, of exquisite rubato, of nail-biting pauses, of long-held notes ... in short, the world of an opera house in Parma around 1810. Rossini claimed he had only shed tears three times in his life: when his father died; when a chicken stuffed with truffles fell into the river during a boating excursion; and when he heard Paganini play.

Well, Mr Koelman pleases us greatly and has an intelligent appreciation of this music. But he would never make us cry. We badly need a recording of Paganini playing.