Writing to one of his contemporary champions, the Venezuelan-born Frenchman Reynaldo Hahn admitted that he valued the other arts as much as, if not more than music. He came close to realising his ‘vision de tous les arts réunis’ in Le rossignol éperdu (‘The Disenchanted/Distraught Nightingale’), a collection of 53 miniatures composed between 1899 and 1910 and published in 1912, divided into four series. Each piece has a poetic title, with a great number carrying one or more additional imaginative inscriptions for the listener/player.

The epigraph of the opening ‘Frontispice’, ‘Penche un peu ton oreille à cet oiseau qui pleure: c’est moi!’ (‘Lend your ear to this bird who cries; it is me!’), establishes the mood of a melancholy personal diary. What follows ranges from fugitive memories (‘Passante’) through poetic and musical tableaux (‘Les deux écharpes’) to travel diaries (‘Le jardin de Pétrarque’) and amorous confessions (‘Liebe! Liebe!’), all enrobed in a musical language that owes much to Fauré and the little-known Gabriel Dupont, with a nod to Mompou in its flirtations with silence (‘Ouranos’).

Hushed tones are among the qualities that make Kolesnikov’s recording so special – a kind of pianistic crooning effect achieved by placing the mics very close to the instrument. His range of colours and effects, as subtle as it is wide, brings him closer to the core of these pieces than any other available recording. In the gentle recitative of ‘Narghilé’ (the hookah or Middle Eastern tobacco waterpipe) I was struck by how Kolesnikov recreates something akin in delicacy to the surface of an oriental vase; then I discovered the haiku-like epigraph for this enigmatic piece: ‘La glycine, des vases bleus, pend’ (‘Wisteria, the blue vase, hanging’). Compare the feeling of weightlessness and heavenly infinity that Kolesnikov evokes in ‘Ouranos’ with the matter-of-factness of Billy Eidi. Marvel at Kolesnikov’s flights of imagination in ‘La fête de Terpsichore’, depicting the statues of nymphs and gods who come to life at night.

Kolesnikov’s selection of 19 pieces repositions them and interjects a group of six waltzes from the 1898 collection Premières valses, creating an overall trajectory from the inner world of the artist to the cosmos. The waltzes bring us into the salon. Many of these delectable items were written for Hahn’s friends, reflecting their musical tastes, as in ‘La feuille’, which gratifies its dedicatee’s penchant for tonalities with numerous sharps or flats. Here Kolesnikov’s gentle rubato suggests the memory of a waltz rather than an actual one, and in fact all these seemingly insubstantial flights of escapism are imbued with sweet nostalgia.

Here’s hoping that this is just the first volume of a broader survey of Hahn’s piano output. He could hope for no finer advocate than Kolesnikov and no subtler response to the cultural ambience of belle époque Paris. Follow-up issues would also give Hyperion a chance to redeem itself for an uncharacteristically feeble booklet note that gives zero information on the music or its crucial epigraphs and poetic images.