Faure's Preludes are among the subtlest and most elusive piano pieces in existence, they express deep but mingled emotions, sometimes with intense directness (like the cries of distress that emerge from the poignantly broken lyricism of No. 73, more often with the utmost economy and restraint and with mysteriously complex simplicity (the same Seventh Prelude achieves depths of pathos in its coda by a quiet but unexpected modulation into the major: the effect is of sudden, sober realization). Unlike Faure's other cycles of piano pieces (the Barcarolles, Nocturnes and Impromptus) the Preludes were written, not one or two at a time over a long span of years, but within a few months of each other, and there is good reason for their concentrated introspection: these were in the months during which the long illness of Faure's beloved father-in-law slowly drew to its end, and during which Faure himself realized that there would be no remission of his growing deafness. He did not yet know that he would be able to continue composing: the Preludes sound like the music of a man determined to refine his language to a still greater purity and concentration of utterance for what might prove his last work. They are not all sad, by any means (No. 4 is gently charming, the coda to No. 5 has a lilting, wistful simplicity, this is music that can often smile and weep at once), but all are reticent, none are public gestures for the concert hall. Paul Crossley's performances are immaculately scaled; without miniaturizing the instrument or the music (which has in fact quite a wide dynamic range, as well as being often technically demanding) they respond with delicacy to Faure's confidences, they are movingly expressive but intimately so, never pianistically rhetorical.
Crossley's technique can be more overt in the Impromptus, the first three of which, at least often call for a combination of virtuosity and humour, the demurely florid middle section of No. I and the deft tarantella of No. 2 are elegantly precise, and the sunny serenity (no, 'happiness' is the word I want) of the outer sections of No. 3 quite cheered up a miserably wintry London evening for me. Nos. 4 and 5 approach the world of the Preludes in their complex simplicity and ambiguity and they are finely done. So are the splendid Variations, which demand a very complete pianist indeed: a spectacular technician in Variation No. 4, a singer of smooth cantabile in Nos. 5 and 6, a poet in Nos. 8, 9 and (especially) 11, that final heart-warming arrival in the major mode. These are beautiful performances, and the recorded sound on CD is pretty well ideal: intimate but not obtrusively close.'