Outside France, Robert Casadesus (1899-1972) was arguably the best-known French pianist of his generation, one whose artistry has long warranted extensive representation on CD. To be sure, there have been substantial reissue efforts in the past, from Sony France’s extensive ‘Casadesus Edition’ to Scribendum’s recent 30-CD retrospective. Sony Classical’s ‘Complete Columbia Album Collection’, however, brings us the most comprehensive authorised Casadesus project to date.

The collection’s 65 CDs encompass Casadesus’s complete CBS Masterworks recordings, spanning from 1941 to 1969, together with a pair of 1960 and 1964 recitals first issued on LP by the Association Robert Casadesus, plus all the CBS and RCA Victor releases involving his wife Gaby and son Jean. Each volume is packaged in an original LP jacket facsimile, numbered more or less chronologically by initial LP release date (78rpm outliers that escaped long-playing format occupy Vols 1 and 2).

An accompanying 186-page booklet includes an essay by Olivier Bellamy, all known recording dates and venues, an index of works by composers and complete catalogue number listings for the original 78s and LPs. The producer Robert Russ discusses anomalies, discrepancies and errors in documentation with his customary thoroughness. One noticeable rectification concerns Debussy’s Préludes Book 2, which Casadesus recorded in 1945, not 1954, as some sources indicate. Similar care informs Sony’s exemplary restorations from the best possible disc, lacquer and tape sources. The items with Charles Munch and George Szell appear in the same superior transfers used for Sony’s earlier complete album collections respectively devoted to these two conductors.

Pianophiles will notice the absence of Casadesus’s 1928-38 British Columbia 78s. Apparently the 1961 Beethoven Emperor Concerto with Hans Rosbaud and the Concertgebouw Orchestra, issued by Philips, was also off limits, although it did turn up on LP in the US via CBS’s budget Odyssey label.

In discussing various keyboard schools and traditions, the American critic Harold C Schonberg called French pianism a kind of ‘frozen history’, characterised by its elegance, facility and tendency towards shallow tone and fast tempos. It would be overly simplistic to characterise Casadesus’s artistry as such, yet these words readily apply to much of his justly celebrated 1951 Ravel cycle. Young pianists can learn from his refined workmanship, evenness of touch and discreet pedalling, even if today’s interpretative zeitgeist favours more scorching and dynamically charged interpretations of Gaspard’s ‘Scarbo’. Both 1947 and 1960 accounts of the Concerto for the Left Hand with Eugene Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra are reference-worthy, although it’s hard to choose between the remake’s opulent stereophony and the mono version’s more gracefully animated Allegro march.

The fact that Casadesus knew and worked with Ravel adds a shroud of authenticity to these interpretations, yet I personally find Casadesus’s Debussy more stimulating. Instead of the ‘piano without hammers’ paradigm defining Walter Gieseking’s hazy shimmer, Casadesus evokes mallets and mallet instruments of every shape and size. In Préludes Book 1, this helps to diffuse the static impression one often gleans from the whole-tone harmony of ‘Voiles’, or to transform the amorphous flakes of ‘The snow is dancing’ into dulcet droplets. Casadesus resists the common temptation to prettify and round off cadences in ‘Estampes’. As a result, his bracingly clear articulation projects Debussy’s polyrhythmic interplay in the guise of bold etchings rather than soft pastels. Likewise, in Préludes Book 2, you’ll rarely hear the runs crackle and scintillate in ‘Feux d’artifice’ with Casadesus’s effortless control, and that climactic glissando is timed to perfection. Regarding timing, Robert and Gaby Casadesus bring to En blanc et noir the most subtle and flexible synchronicity you’ll ever hear in this piece. I prefer the alluringly distant patina of their 1954 mono recording over the closer, slightly harsher-sounding 1963 stereo remake.

Neither of the New York Philharmonic Saint-Saëns Fourth Concerto recordings is ideal. On one hand you have the stereo Bernstein’s bloated, overly resonant engineering and occasionally loose orchestral chording. On the other hand, muffled, constricted sound does poor justice to Artur Rodzinki’s more disciplined support and Casadesus’s relatively nimbler solo work. However, for the Dimitri Mitropoulos/New York synergy at white heat, go to the third movement of Falla’s Nights in the Gardens of Spain and hear them light firecrackers under their esteemed soloist, temporarily breaking his aristocratic cool! Then again, there’s glitter aplenty in the Liszt A major Concerto with Szell: a pity that Casadesus otherwise steered clear of this composer in the studio.

By contrast, Casadesus’s Chopin and Schumann interpretations are impressively patrician and Classically orientated, rather than memorably ardent and Romantic. In other words, don’t expect Horowitz’s demonic persona, Rubinstein’s red-blooded phrasing or Richter’s range of colour (although Casadesus’s sensitive and poetic support graces the baritone Pierre Bernac’s glorious rendering of Dichterliebe). However, the crisp articulation and expressive straightforwardness of Casadesus’s solo Bach, Scarlatti and Rameau stick with you. Among Bach’s multi-keyboard concertos, the C major BWV1064 comes off best, especially vis-à-vis the graceful give and take with which Robert, Gaby and Jean imbue the finale’s three-piano polyphony.

Bellamy’s booklet essay delves into Casadesus’s close association with Mozart, whose music predominates in the pianist’s discography. There’s never a question of style, taste and concision, although some listeners may miss the rhythmic and tonal inflections, operatic inferences and apt embellishments that distinguished Rudolf Serkin’s contemporaneous recordings. The K467 Concerto presents one tell-tale example, where Casadesus eschews the improvisational fill-ins we’ve long come to expect from Mozartians. It’s fascinating to compare the pianist’s 1940, 1956 and 1964 versions of the F major Sonata, K332: the earliest has the most dynamic contrast, the middle one is more elegant and rounded, while the final traversal is on the dry side. The stereo Mozart concerto recordings with Szell still stand the test of time with their exquisite cultivation, chamber-like aesthetic and perfectly judged tempos. Conversely, Casadesus the unabashed show-off lets loose in his 1941 Eine kleine Gigue recording, where his rapid-transit pacing and ironclad control vivify Mozart’s playful rhythmic displacements.

Collectors familiar with the Apollonian poise of Walter Gieseking or Solomon in Beethoven’s concertos will find a like minded spirit in Casadesus’s First and Fourth, although his original cadenzas are rather superficial in their emphasis on passagework and lack of palpable development. But his New York/Mitropoulos Emperor Concerto positively rocks in the outer movements. He is one of the few pianists who manages to project the first-movement second subject’s harmonic felicities while retaining a steady tempo: easier said than done! And Casadesus is anything but a lightweight in the sonatas. The Appassionata finale explodes from the start and doesn’t let up, while the pianist emerges from Les adieux’s gnarly passagework proudly untangled. His somewhat clipped and contained phrasing of Op 78’s rollicking finale and Op 2 No 2’s outer movements evokes and often surpasses Wilhelm Kempff’s similar conceptions. The Op 110 Sonata may lack breadth and ecstatic sweep, yet what beautiful voicing of the contrapuntal strands Casadesus achieves.

Beethoven is at the centre of the pianist’s extensive and splendid collaborations with the violinist Zino Francescatti, with whom he recorded five of the 10 violin sonatas in mono and the entire cycle in stereo. The main differences between mono and stereo versions concern sonics: the mono miking is blended and slightly diffuse; the later recordings are analytically close up with marked stereo separation. The duo also ‘let go’ more often in the earlier readings, such as in the A minor Op 23 Rondo main theme’s momentary accelerations and the Kreutzer Sonata variation movement’s subtle modifications of the basic pulse. You’ll rarely hear a more intelligent and proportioned Franck Sonata than in their 1947 recording, where the musicians’ alla breve phrasing of the fourth movement imparts a conversational flow to the imitative writing and prevents any chance of bombast in the coda. Their 1953 Fauré sonatas transcend mere charm and elegance by virtue of the duo’s large-scale approach and keen harmonic awareness.

The Robert and Gaby Casadesus duo partnership was a happy marriage both personally and musically, and their Debussy, Fauré, Chabrier and Satie recordings remain in a class by themselves. The pianists also make the best possible case for Florent Schmitt’s rarely heard Trois Rapsodies and Une semaine du petit elfe Ferme-l’œil. Their distinction as Schubertians previously eluded me. Rehearing their recordings, I’m more aware of the team’s fastidious balancing of melody and accompaniment in the F minor Fantasy’s Allegro vivace, or how their minuscule tempo adjustments in the final peroration give depth and dimension to writing that can sound clattery in the wrong hands. And I newly appreciate the perfect contouring between the primo fiorituri and the secondo tenor voice in the Andantino variée’s sublime final variation. One also must mention the tragically short-lived (he was 44) Jean Casadesus’s Debussy Préludes Book 1 (softer-grained than those of his father), his contrastingly bracing, hard-edged Chabrier recital and his exuberant live Beethoven Third Piano Concerto with Mitropolous.

Lastly, the collection gives ample due to Casadesus the composer. It’s not surprising that he writes idiomatically and effectively for his instrument, yet mastery of orchestration and skill for deploying instruments must not be underestimated. The finale of his Piano Concerto No 2 might be likened to a gentle samba, where piano and first-desk soloists assiduously intermingle and the textures grow thicker without cluttering, like Milhaud and Villa-Lobos at their best. The Sextuor and Nonetto are jam-packed with creative and rambuctious ideas, and the Second Violin Sonata’s leaping melodic explorations keep your ears alert. I’m especially fond of the Hommage à Chausson for violin and piano, an eight-minute work that alternates tersely lyrical sections with rapid, quicksilver ensemble interplay.

One cannot ask for more, except for a similar project gathering all of the Casadesus family’s non-CBS/RCA Victor recordings under one roof. In all, the present collection’s wide repertoire range and overall artistic excellence offer much to discover and digest. Buy it while you can (it’ll set you back about £200), which means sooner rather than too late.