This probably doesn’t need comparisons, it was suggested when I was offered this disc to review. How true: what would be the point of comparing anything with a disc lasting a mere 43 minutes, featuring a less than-pristine piano and a rather unremarkable orchestra? Except that this is Grigory Sokolov. And his concerto recordings are rarer than hen’s teeth, the pianist having long ago declared that shortage of rehearsal time meant such accounts would always fall short of his almost impossibly exacting standards.

This Chopin First Concerto dates from 1977, when Sokolov was 27, and it’s a remarkable document on many levels. If the initial impression of the Munich Philharmonic is that it’s somewhat thick-sounding in the string department, with unfashionably fulsome vibrato in the woodwind (the flutes in particular), that’s offset by the forward drive and sense of conviction brought to the tuttis by Witold Rowicki, a fine conductor of this music. He sets up a sense of the tragic epic in the first movement, which is in accord with Sokolov’s own view. Yet, despite his towering pianism, the Russian doesn’t dominate the proceedings – he can go from a roar down to the most velvety pianissimo in a moment, and it’s at the points where the music is most withdrawn that you experience the full magic of this interpretation. Just sample the first movement at 6'47", when the orchestra falls silent, or the luminously tender dialogue led by the piano at 11'39". Everywhere there’s a sense of the music unfolding with such inevitability that there’s never any danger of finding yourself waiting for the next piano entry, as can sometimes happen.

And then there’s the slow movement. When it begins, you may think ‘too slow’, but – like Richter – Sokolov can convince at speeds that would leave mere mortals sounding heavy-footed, and it unfolds as a song, unhurried and mesmeric. Every harmonic shading is given due thought without ever seeming over-intellectualised, and the dying bars are wondrous.

Rowicki lets rip in the finale, contrasting slashing string phrases with euphonious wind, while Sokolov is steely one moment, deliquescent the next. He doesn’t spare the orchestra in terms of rubato but they hang on for dear life. Others may seek to charm more in this movement, but this vision is darker, the krakowiak elements given with an unflinching rawness. Yes, at times the piano itself isn’t exactly pretty, but that’s beside the point.

So no comparisons. An extraordinary document, with Sokolov’s integrity and humanity illuminating every bar.