Daniel Müller-Schott ends this formidable unaccompanied recital with Pablo Casals’s Song of the Birds, played with the intense focus, the sense of line and the gleaming purity of tone that characterises the whole disc. And yet there’s an elegiac quality about its final, superbly controlled fade into silence; something that sets the seal on the air of melancholy that pervades the second half of a fascinating programme. Müller-Schott has dedicated the disc to the memory of his father, and despite the disc’s trendy-vicar title (do you pronounce the hashtag?), there’s something here that goes beyond virtuosity.

Which is saying something. Even today, it’s unusual to hear Kodály’s stupendous Op 8 Sonata played with such precision, such aplomb and such effortless finesse. You wonder if the music is even supposed to sound this polished – whether Kodály’s crunchy double-stops and sudden, dizzying leaps from C-string thunder to whirling stratospheric passagework should feel quite so effortless. And perhaps something of János Starker’s earthiness and air of mystery is missing. But the drama, sweep and sheer command of Müller-Schott’s performance decisively silence any doubts.

I doubt, too, that there are more nuanced or atmospheric accounts in existence of Hindemith’s brooding Sonata or the nine Shakespeare-inspired miniatures that make up Henze’s Serenade. The colours of Müller-Schott’s pizzicato, alone, seem limitless: sometimes brittle as bullet-points, swerving playfully upwards in Henze’s sixth-movement Tango or fanning softly out to throw a haze of mourning over the opening phrases of George Crumb’s 1955 Sonata. Müller-Schott’s ability to inflect a single line of music makes even works such as Prokofiev’s slightly dubious reconstructed Sonata and his own entertainingly eclectic Cadenza repay re-listening. He certainly has something to say.