On one level this is an amazing recital, the ultimate demonstration of how two artists with individual ideas and the technical wherewithal to realise them in practice can tease, cajole, pull or push the line, toy with dynamics, experiment with rubato, in a word (all senses), really play. The commedia dell’arte world of Stravinsky’s Suite italienne (music reworked from the Pulcinella ballet) suits them to a T. It’s all there in the Introduction, Mischa Maisky’s purring tone singing atop Argerich’s stiletto staccato, the tiny delays, heightened colours. Try the trilling repetitions from 1’32” in the Serenade, the violent alternations in dynamics, or the swagger at 1’01” as Argerich jabs a powerful forte and Maisky flies off on a racy glissando.

I’m not sure if this mercurial, colour-sensitive approach always works in the bigger pieces, where felicitous ‘freedoms’ can distract attention from the larger canvas. True, Shostakovich’s heated Largo and the relatively rhapsodic Prokofiev Sonata can take it, Prokofiev’s first movement especially, whereas the central Moderato is a model of elegance. The range of nuance on offer in the dramatically hushed slow centre of the finale is remarkable and the finales of both sonatas witness the brilliance and fleetness of Maisky’s fast playing, even at mezzo-piano or softer.

The Shostakovich Sonata enjoys mutual give and take in the phrasing, swelling or contracting, the opening of the first movement initially unfolding as a single, driven line – until we reach the dreamy second subject (1’25”) which is so slow that the jolting contrast quite stems the flow of argument. The opening of the scherzo is stunning, Argerich chiming loud repeated chords and machine-gun single notes in the treble, Maisky conjuring eerie sul ponticello arpeggios later on, though again wilful little hesitations might pall on repetition.

The mild kitsch of Prokofiev’s Stone Flower Waltz makes for a perfect encore, and it also made me think how much I’d like to hear Argerich and Maisky tackle a whole programme of shorter pieces, music that thrives on minute, jewel-like observations and short-term flamboyance. Here, in spite of some dazzling virtuosity and a laudable sense of daring, there’s too much that sounds like self-parody, as if impulsive ideas were being mischievously played up rather than refined and worked into the larger picture. I think of (for example) Horowitz, Fournier or Heifetz, players who would spend aeons fashioning a single gesture so that by the time we the public heard it any semblance of exaggeration had vanished. No question that as a team Argerich and Maisky have that sort of potential but in the meantime, even considering a plethora of thoughtful rival versions (Truls Mørk, for example), Rostropovich offers an inspired benchmark in both works, with Richter the pianist in the Prokofiev and the composer himself in the Shostakovich.