Long over-shadowed by his more trendy and chic contemporaries, York Bowen’s unapologetic and superbly crafted Romanticism fell out of fashion until rescued from near-oblivion by Stephen Hough, most elegant and impassioned of advocates (Hyperion, 6/96). True, Bowen (1884-1961), himself a superb pianist, included Saint-Saëns, Sorabji and the brilliant critic Clinton Grey-Fisk among his admirers, but tired and clichéd descriptions such as ‘the English Rachmaninov’ (similar to descriptions of Alkan as ‘the Berlioz of the keyboard’ or Medtner as ‘the Russian Brahms) suggested a tale twice told, a conservative lacking creative energy and fire. Nothing could be further from the truth: the influences of Rachmaninov and Medtner combine with echoes of English pastoralism, a subtly shifting harmonic palette and a dazzling pianist resource to ensure that a potentially passé idiom is enlivenend to achieve a haunting magic and vitality.

Such music requires an exceptional pianist and Joop Celis, who has collected prizes at the Busoni and Epinal International piano competitions, is a dream exponent, flawlessly attuned to Bowen’s idiom and the possessor of a pulverizing technique. More doughty, less suave and insinuating than Hough, Celis clearly sees Bowen as a turbulent high priest of Romanticism. And hearing him in, for example, the elemental octave uproar of the 18th Prelude or in the ecstatic outpouring of No 7 you will note an intimidating command that, musicianly to the core, scorns all artifice, curlicued phrasing or a desire to tint an already memorable idiom.

Amazingly, the Sixth Sonata receives its first recording, its breadth and, in the finale, crazed exuberance played to the hilt by Celis. Here, then, is both a creative and recreative revelation magnificently recorded. Is it too much to hope that Joop Celis and Chandos will give us a complete York Bowen cycle?