They sing, they say, in the language of heaven; they are British born, but by the grace of God (maintains a friend of mine), Welsh. It is a Welsh Male Voice Choir: Cwmbach, to be precise.

And you will not hear better this side of Eastern Europe.

A progamme, partly devoted to the fascinating link they had with the incomparable Paul Robeson, was full of fervour, passion, glorious sound; in fact, everything Welsh.

They had an excellent narrator - again, with Welsh clarity of diction and enunciation - and, in Andrew Quick, a musical director who had a firm, yet sympathetic hold.

The choir did not miss a beat, oft times a millisecond ahead of Quick - call that Welsh passion - and their tone was constant, golden, to the end.

Their discipline, so often nowadays considered unimportant, was impeccable: All hands by the side as they sang, all across the lap as they sat; no fiddle faddling, no distraction.

Newbury’s American Trilogy was fascinating; John Rutter’s arrangement of When the Saints go Marching In was quite captivating but, for sheer roundness of sound and precision, the items sung in Welsh were the cream of the evening.

But I had to wonder why they used an electronic keyboard rather than a real piano. And that takes nothing away from the standard of Jayne Thomas’s playing.