My enthusiasm for the original issue of Gould's performance of Book I was considerable but by the time Book 2 came it had waned. There was (and still is) no denying his incredible skill in controlling, varying and contrasting touch in clarifying textures through 'orchestration', and his eschewing all forms of overt pianism remained (and remains) a testimony to his devotion to presenting the music, as he saw it, without looking back to the harpsichord or forward to the nineteenth-century piano. As many reviewers at that time enthused, it was a remarkable achievement, yet the carefully calculated and emotionless end-product, together with a lacing of inexplicable idiosyncrasies and the irksome vocal contribution, added up to an analytical exposition of Bach's music, rather than a human performance of it and one that was as often quirky as it was revelatory. The doubts began to creep in, and retrospectively, with Prelude I of Book 1: the varying articulation of the last few notes of each group speaks of Gould, but what does it say of Bach? Echo answered, as it did to other, subsequent questions. The harpsichord cannot give extra weight to any one line, nor is there any evidence that players of Bach's time used extreme variations of articulation for such a purpose, notably in the ready-balanced texture of a fugue; such 'painting by numbers' is an anachronistic imposition.
Among the currently available piano versions of the 48 Schiff's on Decca remains the best and the most free from excess; its pros and cons were discussed in my 1986 review. Keith Jarrett's recording of Book I (ECM/New Note) is all that one might reasonably wish, but Book 2 is still missing, alack! That it occupies only three discs may persuade some readers to invest in Gould's set, one that amazes and irritates by turns, and over which controversy will doubtless continue for a long time to come.'