In Pentatone’s accompanying notes Pierre-Laurent Aimard explains that he has ‘spent a lot of time with Hungarians and their country. It was not only a privilege but also a choice to work in depth with great Hungarian masters such as György Kurtág, Simon Albert [sic] and Peter Eötvös. And nothing could have brought me closer to such linguistically singular music than learning the Hungarian language.’ Having rendered the second of those icons the Hungarian way with the family name first, Aimard goes on to describe the ‘intensity’ of Bartók’s concertos as ‘incandescent’. Not always the quality that springs to mind here and listeners in thrall to Hungarian music-making may expect a little more paprika in the mix. Only there’s more than one kind of paprika and these are performances of unmistakable distinction from experienced practitioners. Aimard played in Pierre Boulez’s recording of the Concerto for two pianos, percussion and orchestra (DG, A/08), while Esa-Pekka Salonen previously conducted the three standard piano concertos for Yefim Bronfman (Sony, 5/96).

Clean textures and effortless fluency might have been expected from the present line-up but not a subtler magic, the stylistic contrast they make between scores to reflect their place in the composer’s timeline. The deft precision of the First Concerto parts company with conventionally clangorous readings, the performers unafraid to reveal a debt to Stravinsky. As throughout, the microphones scrutinise from fairly close quarters. Fortunately the orchestra’s super-articulate contribution can take it. The belligerent thrust of the Second Concerto is not softened even when the music is permitted to show its more witty and elegant face. The middle movement turns nightmarish and the finale is forcefully driven, at least until the closing bars. Here the a tempo marking prompts a slightly underwhelming denouement: Zoltán Kocsis and Iván Fischer (Philips, 1/88) favour an unmarked sprint.

The Third Concerto gets perhaps the most unexpected makeover. Where András Schiff, again with Fischer’s Budapest Festival Orchestra (Teldec, 3/97), is wistful and Kocsis powerfully direct, implicitly ‘modern’, Aimard and Salonen find a different register, not so much nostalgic as easefully neoclassical. The unhurried opening movement is refreshed by some magically transparent voicing from the pianist. The second also sounds rejuvenated, from the initial suggestion of a viol consort through the acutely vivid nature-painting at its heart to the provisional serenity at its close. And you can actually hear the softer tam-tam stroke six bars from the end. The finale, which might be said to lack barnstorming bravura, compensates with contrapuntal clarity and rare lightness of touch.

Captured live with applause expunged, these fascinating rethinks arrive with full supporting documentation. A left-field Awards contender that some will find genuinely haunting, others a mite underseasoned.