I heard Steven Osborne performing Debussy’s Études live at a Wigmore Hall lunchtime concert last year, so my expectations for the recording made within days of it were high – expectations that have been wonderfully exceeded. What a magnificent way to conclude this extraordinary reappraisal of Debussy’s solo piano music.

Osborne rounds out the disc with Pour le piano, whose opening movement has a wild élan to it, the final one taken at a thrilling pace without loss of detail, contrasting with an inner Sarabande with a perfect balance of poise and tenderness. From here we travel to a wistful La plus que lente, a strikingly angst-filled Berceuse héroïque, its 1914 date brought violently into focus, before closing with Roy Howat’s realisation of an earlier (quite different) version of Debussy’s 11th Étude, which touchingly fades away to nothing and demonstrates just how far the composer was still experimenting – there being little in common between this and its eventual replacement beyond the use of arpeggios.

But back to the published Études: the first thing to mention is how ideal the Steinway sounds, superbly engineered by David Hinitt together with Osborne’s regular producer, the ever sharp-eared Andrew Keener (and there’s no discernible shift in sound for La plus que lente, from a different session with engineer Arne Akselberg and producer Stephen Johns). These 12 pieces become, in Osborne’s hands, a veritable vision of colours and characters, elevating them far above their workaday title; at times they feel as if they should, like Debussy’s Préludes, have titles appended to them. At first, I was content merely to marvel in his pianistic sorcery, but comparing them with long-held benchmarks is even more revealing. The first, ‘Pour les cinq doigts’, finds Osborne as fleet as Uchida in her classic recording, and just as skittish at the Poco meno mosso (1'47"); alongside them Aimard is more studied both in tempo and mood. Osborne adds to the mix bold use of the sustaining pedal, culminating in a thrillingly strepitoso upward scale, the final chords suitably sharp-edged.

That’s just one example – my listening notes went on for pages. Time and again there were details that tickled the ear with their freshness, revealing as if for the first time the anarchic brilliance of Debussy’s vision. The prodigious difficulty of No 6, ‘Pour les huits doigts’, for instance, here unfolds with a billowing ease that is utterly seductive, the melody pulled out of the whirring demisemiquavers with complete naturalness. This is one of the high points of Uchida’s set, played with an extraordinary finesse and virtually no sustaining pedal. Pollini here is more about perfection of execution and the étude’s playful sign-off is short on wit compared to Uchida or Osborne.

Whereas the great Italian presents here a set of ultra-refined pieces addressing different technical challenges, Uchida and Osborne are much more interested (it seems to me) in taking these pieces out of the practice room and putting them in a theatre. In No 5, ‘Pour les octaves’, for instance, Osborne ranges from an almost Rachmaninovian grandeur in the chordal writing, via making light (literally) work of the dry-textured, detached writing (from 0'57"), to a deliciously sardonic ending. This étude, incidentally, is a rare instance of misjudgement on Uchida’s part, seeming unduly slow and world-weary.

The sheer imagination that Osborne brings to successive études means that each one very much inhabits its own world: in ‘Pour les degrés chromatiques’, which begins Book 2, there’s enormous contrast between the whirring chromatic movement that sets it in motion, the Puckish sense of play and the sudden, almost shocking moments when its acerbic qualities dissolve into warmth, Osborne underlining these effects with subtle pedalling. Uchida is altogether drier here, blending absolute clarity and arch mischievousness, but it’s Osborne who conjures the greater unease. In No 8, too, the pedal becomes almost a character in its own right, the colouristic possibilities of the étude laid bare, and with a fluid, almost improvisatory feel underpinning it.

There’s great humanity to be found in this new set, too: ‘Pour les notes répétées’ (No 9) finds Aimard a little straitlaced, Pollini po-faced and Uchida deliciously anarchic; into this mix, Osborne finds an increasing sense of pathos, referencing perhaps Stravinsky’s benighted puppet Petrushka.

The final étude, ‘Pour les accords’, can, with its awkwardly placed chords, become a mere shout-fest in the hands of lesser musicians. The smart move is not to take it too fast but Osborne is having none of that, displaying a thrilling muscularity that contrasts piquantly with the hues of the Lento molto rubato.

Uchida has reigned supreme in this repertoire for more than three decades; now, though, I think Osborne can take the crown. It all feels entirely personal, even down to the CD cover, of a textile design by another visionary – Charles Rennie Mackintosh – that is contemporary with Debussy’s Études and pays homage to the pianist’s own Scottish heritage.