The headstrong temperament characterising Andrew Tyson’s previous two albums (3/15, 6/17) reaches affettuoso heights throughout his latest release. He can’t let two or three measures go by without spraying interpretative graffiti – a prolonged tenuto on this note, a sudden dynamic dip on that note, unpredictable gearshifts, phrases that lurch like a capsizing canoe or that wind down like a sputtering auto fresh out of petrol.

And yet (and this is a big ‘and yet’) genuinely musical impulses nearly always govern Tyson’s transgressions, in contrast to, say, the calculated and self-aware Ivo Pogorelich, the cynically mannered Tzimon Barto or the restless vapidity of Khatia Buniatishvili. Imagine Cyprien Katsaris fuelled by extra caffeine, or John Cleese’s wild comedic brain welded to Benjamin Grosvenor’s staggering, utterly inborn keyboard gifts, and you’ll understand what Andrew Tyson is about.

You listen to the Scarlatti sonatas not for grace and insouciant style but rather to ponder just what Tyson will do next. Then again, you can sort of predict the dynamic gradations in the Scarlatti/Tausig E major Sonata. Purists may cringe at the Schubert ‘little’ A major’s petulant accentuations and thrill-a-minute voicings but Tyson’s irreverence seduces you as much as Richter’s antipodal austerity. In Albéniz’s Iberia Book 1, Tyson exchanges the stylish ‘duende’ of ‘El puerto’ for giddy recklessness. The usually meditative ‘Evocación’ takes unfettered wing, with the kind of rubato you’d associate more with Frank Sinatra than Alicia de Larrocha. Even in the best hands, the extended climaxes of ‘Fête-Dieu à Séville’ wear out their welcome, but not in Tyson’s supple, light-footed and playful reading. Perhaps the sensuous Mompou pieces benefit most from Tyson’s free-spirited style and boundless tonal resources.

I’ll go out on a limb to call Andrew Tyson the Willy Wonka of pianists. And best of all, you don’t need a golden ticket to enter his artistic realm.