Nadia Boulanger (1887-1979) taught so many composers and musicians that a list of her pupils reads like a who’s who of 20th-century music – and her influence spread well beyond the classical realm. Astrig Siranossian and Nathanaël Gouin begin their tribute to Boulanger with a thrillingly passionate performance of Piazzolla’s Le Grand Tango (composed for Rostropovich). From the taut, syncopated rhythms of the opening section, the musicians gradually ratchet up the emotional temperature. Gouin is particularly impressive in the final minutes, playing with such abandon that it sometimes seems he’s improvising the piano part (listen starting around 8'57").

In parts of Stravinsky’s Suite italienne, I’m fairly certain I hear the musicians giving an aristocratic nod to Boulanger’s own expressively restrained interpretative style. Note, for instance, how suavely Siranossian rounds off the sharp edges of the Introduzione, or to the delicacy and dry humour both musicians bring to the Aria. More to the point, perhaps, Siranossian and Daniel Barenboim (a Boulanger pupil) convinced me that the charms of three youthful compositions by the Mademoiselle herself are not as slender as they might appear. Indeed, with their evocation of Fauré’s late chamber works, the first two pieces convey a wealth of feeling with astonishing succinctness.

The prize here, in many respects, is Elliott Carter’s 1948 Cello Sonata. On first hearing, I missed the boldness Joel Krosnick and Gilbert Kalish (Arabesque) bring to this craggy score, a key transitional work in Carter’s output, and one in which myriad influences (Stravinsky, Schoenberg, Copland and Ives) have not quite gelled. (I’d argue that this stylistic battle is part of what makes the Sonata so exhilarating.) Yet the more I listened the more I appreciated Siranossian and Gouin’s lighter touch. Instead of pummelling, they make the music dance, and somehow manage to maintain an unbroken line through each movement, even in the daunting rhythmic and metric complexities of the finale.

There are three brief encores, all arranged by the performers. The Glass is straightforward (and typical of the composer in a lyrical vein), but the tuneful Legrand medley is as elaborate and flashy as a Liszt paraphrase, while the Quincy Jones transcription retains both the playfulness and dynamism of the big-band original.

All in all, then, a terrifically satisfying recital, and a fitting tribute to a formidable musical icon.