Here are two Prokofiev recitals by two Russian pianists of different generations (Koroliov is now 64, Kozhukhin 27), the first overly romantic, the other happy to be respectable in music that is far from respectable. Koroliov opens with the Second Sonata, where Prokofiev’s unmistakable voice emerges, erasing memories of the First Sonata’s conservative stance. Yet if the second subject’s wintry lyricism, the scrubbing-brush scherzo and the finale’s Tom-and-Jerry cartoon chase are already vintage Prokofiev, Koroliov surely underlines a link rather than a break with the past, favouring much romantic leeway and rhythmic elasticity, with any opportunity to linger savoured to the full. The effect is oddly old-fashioned, particularly when compared with a more modern and familiar caustic cut-and-thrust. There are some surprising turns of speed in the Second Sonata’s finale and in the Seventh Sonata’s opening, though the Seventh’s 7/8 Precipitato finale is stolidly paced and includes skittish rather than cataclysmic final pages.

Kozhukhin’s performances, on the other hand, are tame and under-characterised, invariably modest rather than thrilling. Where is the necessary edge and empathy of Prokofiev’s lean and hungry idiom? Is the Sixth Sonata’s finale truly vivace or the Seventh Sonata’s opening inquieto (a term again reduced in the flurries of the Eighth Sonata’s opening movement)? The latter’s central Andante drags rather than flows, its faux-naïf charm extinguished by lethargy. Even the Seventh Sonata’s finale – most propulsive and violent of toccatas – has its crazed impetus and manic rhythm played down in the interests of safety.

There is no competition here for Richter’s recordings of all these sonatas (notably Nos 2 and 8, taken live from his 1961 Royal Festival Hall debut recital), nor for Boris Giltburg’s scorching virtuosity in his recent disc of Sonatas Nos 6, 7 and 8, where he gives even the greatest pianists a run for their money.