Every now and again accounts of Ravel’s concertos come along that set new standards: the G major from Michelangeli and Gracis in 1957 (Warner, 1/58) and from Argerich and Abbado in the 1960s (DG, 2/68); then, in the mid-1990s, both concertos from Zimerman and Boulez (DG, 2/99). And, despite a plethora of other outstanding readings, here’s another game-changer.

That is as much down to François-Xavier-Roth and Les Siècles (an ensemble that next year celebrates its 20th birthday and whose period-instrument timbres have shed fresh light on repertoire from Berlioz to Stravinsky) as it is to Cédric Tiberghien. He brings his chamber-musical sensibilities and a Gallic suavity to every bar he plays and the piano, a Pleyel from 1892, is gloriously well chosen, the glissandos coming off with ease, while the relative translucency of the lowermost range is a revelation. But more of that in a moment.

From the first bar of the G major, what strikes anew is Ravel’s originality in terms of instrumental combinations. Needless to say, my listening notes ran to dozens of examples, but I’m going to have restrict myself to just a few. These are the sort of performances that pull you back to the score, checking details you’d never fully noticed previously. Tiberghien brings to the first movement a sense of playful energy, flexibility and an acute awareness of colour (for instance, in his dark-hued bass scales from 3'30", which have a lovely clarity to them), while passages such as the harp cadenza against sustained cello (4'29") have you revelling in Ravel’s invention afresh. Tiberghien imbues the long solo-piano opening of the Adagio with such a confiding quality that you don’t want it to end, but when it does, it’s with the gentlest of flute responses, followed by equally subtle oboe and clarinet. Another highlight is the plangent cor anglais solo a little further on (from 6'18"), Tiberghien whispering the accompaniment. The Presto is glistening and fast-paced but never in danger of losing control, the wind players enjoying their moments in the sun, be it the jazzy E flat clarinet, trombone glissandos, shrieking piccolo or virtuoso bassoon. Throughout, Tiberghien is very much the glue holding the piece together and the cumulative effect is irresistible.

The Left-Hand Concerto is just as revelatory. The opening, which is so often reduced to a murky rumbling, here has the clarity of a finely restored Rembrandt, but that doesn’t lead to any loss of atmosphere, the contrabassoon a superbly malevolent presence. Roth unerringly builds the sound to create an enormous – almost Wagnerian – crescendo, and when the piano finally enters, Tiberghien brings to his solo a strong sense of narrative, ranging in mood from vehement, to sorrowing, to determined. He observes every marking in the score but makes each phrase sound entirely personal, with the closing bars of the soliloquy truly strepitoso. Roth’s way with the grandiloquent dotted orchestral theme that answers the piano (from 4'41") conveys a sense of a vast texture without undue heaviness, the timpani underlining the dotted rhythm with just the right degree of presence, and the mighty climax enhanced by shimmering triangle and tambourine. When Tiberghien re-enters it’s beautifully musing; that emotional breadth, allied to an instrument that can purr in the depths and sound crystalline in the upper reaches, is potent indeed. Throughout, as in the G major, he’s very much one of the gang, whether duetting with the cor anglais or responding to the sinister marching rhythms of trumpets and percussion. His virtuosity is understated but ever-present, and he brings to the final cadenza, emerging from the depths and heading upwards into the light, a billowing ease, making you forget entirely that his right hand is silent. Magical too is the way the orchestra, led by strings, creep in so quietly that you almost don’t notice, until the inexorable final moments, as jolting and shattering as I’ve ever heard them.

The programming works beautifully, too, with the G major followed by Don Quichotte à Dulcinée, songs that echo its sound world, artlessly sung by Stéphane Degout, before moving to the sparer language of the Deux Mélodies hébraïques, ‘Kaddisch’ given a Cantor-ish directness, followed by ‘L’énigme éternelle’, suitably elusive. Even something as familiar as the Pavane, the palate-cleanser before the three Mallarmé settings, is given a refreshingly unsentimental reading by Tiberghien, the piano’s natural warmth exploited to fine effect. After the Left-Hand Concerto there’s one more treat in store, Mallarmé’s ‘Sainte’, a song unfamiliar to me, in a perfectly poised reading by Degout. Beautifully recorded, this is headily seductive and has Award-winner written all over it. But don’t take my word for it – go and listen to it post-haste.