Commercially recorded by their composers more than 60 years ago, these concertos are generously, perhaps over-generously, represented on disc today. That said, relatively few contemporary pianists have made a speciality of them both – Argerich and Ashkenazy spring most readily to mind – and they are seldom coupled together as here. DG’s pairing of Rostropovich and Pletnev is unexpected, too. The veteran conductor-cellist is not the most obvious partner for a conductor-pianist famous for his pellucid sonority, pristineclarity and emotional restraint. Perhaps Rostropovich’s legendary closeness to Prokofiev himself prompted the match.

More surprises follow in that, for me at least, it’s the Rachmaninov that shines brighter. Like a good live performance, the music-making gains in intensity as it proceeds, though it’s not always the sort of intensity one naturally associates with this repertoire. Rostropovich contributes pockets of heavyweight expression, but there’s little sense of over-inflation. Indeed, after the dark volatility of Argerich and Chailly, the Russians’ interpretation may strike you as positively Mendelssohnian: the pianistic texture is always carefully graded and the tone never glares, however torrential the figuration.

The flowing tempo and long line of the opening theme set a particular tone, its beauty carefully chiselled, without ostentation, whereas the transition to the second subject is more conventionally romantic. Pletnev makes sense of it all, as he does of the big cadenza. Having chosen the massive chordal one rather than the simpler alternative favoured by the rivals listed above, he plays it delicately, almost diffidently.

Rostropovich gets a glorious response from the strings at the start of the second movement, although the brief return to the initial mood is arguably broader than the material can bear and the contrast with Pletnev’s ultra-mercurial way with the waltz section feels dangerously abrupt. The finale is individualistic, too. For once we have a pianist as deft and suave as the composer himself, and the absolute security of his articulation can take the breath away even in apparently uninteresting transitional passages. What you won’t find is the nth degree of emotional continuity and clout – the passion comes with inverted commas. Whether stabbing at bass notes or adumbrating those romantic warhorse gestures, there is an element of nonchalance in the realisation that not everyone will like. Much of it is lightly pedalled, too – more plink than plonk – and all the more phenomenal for that!

In the Prokofiev, Pletnev’s fingerwork reveals the bejewelled nature of the composer’s keyboard writing as never before and at first it seems that there will be sufficient joie de vivre to convince the sceptics. Tempi are unhurried throughout, yet the air of detachment becomes more acute in the finale where Prokofiev provides the sort of tidal wave denouement expressly designed to bring an audience to its feet. Simply put, Pletnev has other priorities. He is nothing if not unpredictable, sometimes prone to perverse voicings and whimsical rubato, here veering towards the expository coolness that vitiated his remake of the Prokofiev Seventh Sonata (DG, 6/98). I should stress that the first movement of the Concerto is very fine indeed, with the Russian players unexpectedly poised and Ravelian at the start, while in the second movement’s variation subject Rostropovich has enough space to ensure that Prokofiev’s quirky phrasing actually registers.

How to sum up? The Prokofiev contains enough fabulous music-making to make it well worth sampling, and the Rach Three offers a real challenge to established favourites, so long as you are sympathetic to an approach altogether more subtle than the norm, one in which Rachmaninov’s piano writing never comes across as merely congested. While Gramophone’s Rob Cowan provides a useful session note, there is nothing on the music per se. My only cavil would be the swimmy soundstage which produces a rather thin orchestral sonority, not much helped by the orchestra’s trademark divided violins and inconsistently focused winds. Some subtlety of detail is lost in the Rachmaninov. Don’t let me put you off, though. The star protagonists would seem to have enjoyed themselves hugely, if their vocalisations are anything to go by.