Poulenc had a low of opinion of his piano music in general, complaining it was too dependent on the textures of Chopin and Schumann. What he failed to see, being Poulenc, was the extent to which it’s Poulenc. He even sanctioned the cutting of movements IV-VI from the suite Les soirées de Nazelles, surely one of his finest pieces – a nonsensical pruning anyway, since it means that at least one of the reminiscences in the finale has nothing to reminisce about.

Happily, Charles Owen gives us the work complete. Even more happily, he does so with all the variegated colours and articulations it calls for, honouring the nods in the direction of Couperin at one extreme and of Maurice Chevalier at the other. The finale, marked follement vite, doesn’t go quite as fast as in Gabriel Tacchino’s (EMI, 7/89 – nla) or Pascal Rogé’s versions, but then neither do we have Tacchino’s patches on autopilot, nor Rogé’s sometimes clattery fortissimi. Owen’s playing is marvellously alive. Where there are nuances, he finds them; where Poulenc plays the vulgarian (oh so aristocratically!), there too Owen is on the mark. Add to that a lovely ear for balance and fingers that are more than capable of these twisting exercises, and you have enjoyment at a high level.

I would issue only two cautions, the first of which concerns his pedal releases. Not that we get any of the caterwauling harmonics that can be so distressing. But every now and then the colour of a chord does change as the sustaining pedal comes up, which I’m sure is not what either composer or pianist had in mind.

The second problem is revealed by listening to Poulenc’s own recording of the first Novelette, in which you can’t help being struck by its rhythmical rigour: no little rallentandos at the ends of phrases, no ‘expressive’ pauses on barlines. Every now and again, and especially in the Falla Novelette, Owen gives in to this pseudo-expressivity, which I would call good old sentimentality (something Rogé also is prone to). But these moments are rare. The piano sound is fuller than Tacchino’s, the choice of pieces enlightened. Poulenc did like the Improvisations (how could he not?), and here they come in order and not, as with Rogé, split arbitrarily between two discs. I shall be playing this one for many years to come.