Whether or not Antoine Reicha’s all-but-unknown L’art de varier, Op 57 (composed between 1802 and 1803) represents the proverbial missing link between Bach’s Goldberg and Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations, it’s certainly the largest variation set to have appeared between those iconic sets. As is usually the case with Reicha, his piano-writing abounds with originality and quirkiness. The theme itself foreshadows the kind of plaintive, yearning lyricism one finds in Schumann.

Right away Reicha displays his penchant for oddball harmonic gestures in Var 2. The minor-key Var 4’s broken octaves require sturdy fingers and sheer stamina. The start-and-stop nature of Var 5’s dotted rhythms make it difficult to ascertain the pulse by ear. Var 6’s perpetual motion patterns and restless chromatic writing again foreshadow Schumann, while Var 17’s right-hand ‘power’ chords over a left-hand ostinato pedal point presage Elton John and Billy Joel! Var 31 might be described as a funeral march with too many interruptions, while Var 52 is a deliciously tongue-in-cheek gavotte. Var 45’s elaborate registral interplay is positively Brahmsian, except for the fact that Brahms wouldn’t be born for another 30 years. As for the terse and abrupt minor-key Var 57, has there ever been a more anticlimatic ending ever composed?

In other words, don’t expect an architectural monument in the manner of Bach and Beethoven. You won’t find the Goldbergs’ numerological rigour, large-scale dramatic trajectory or cumulative sweep. Reicha instead treats variation form much in the way a caterer lays out a big buffet table, where choices and possibilities take priority over order and sequence. Furthermore, Reicha provides few dynamic and expressive directives, and usually leaves tempo decisions to the performer. As a consequence, momentum materialises in fits and starts, and the music winds up persistently grabbing your attention yet never really holding on to it.

These factors may explain why L’art de varier has never found favour in the concert hall, not to mention its great length; indeed, the present recording comes in at nearly 87 minutes, generously packed on to a single CD. However, Ivan Ilić makes a more compelling case for the work than Mauro Masala did in his 2001 premiere recording issued by Dynamic. Ilic´ not only observes every repeat but also varies his touch, voicings and phrasings on the second passes. He keeps the contrapuntal repartee between the hands consistently vibrant and alive, as in Var 18’s pinpoint entrances. The pianist taps into the humorous potential behind Var 25’s wide dynamic contrasts, Var 27’s sardonic music-box evocations and Var 42’s fleeting moods. What is more, the engineer’s superb concert-hall realism helps enhance the fresh characterisations and imaginative use of tone colour that Ilić consistently brings to this fascinating opus. The booklet notes prove just as insightful and entertaining as Ilić’s overall artistry. A major contribution to the catalogue.