Back in December 2010 Jeremy Nicholas waxed lyrical about a recording of Schubert duets, which brought together Paul Lewis and Steven Osborne for the first time. It remains one of my most listened-to discs and one of my all-time favourite duet recordings. And it’s striking to recall that, at that time, Lewis was the more famous of the two, Osborne still not really receiving his due. Now comes their second album together and the first thing that strikes me is that Lewis sounds every bit as attuned to French music – which he hasn’t recorded at all – as Osborne, whose Ravel, Debussy and Messiaen have been rightly acclaimed. It’s hard not to go into auto-rave mode; and you’ll notice that, unusually, I haven’t worried about comparisons, for this needs none.

They begin with Dolly and manage, despite its popularity, to make it sound the freshest thing in the world, bringing across its innate charm and playfulness without any hint of the saccharine. So we have by turns a Berceuse that balances naturalness and tenderness, an irrepressible ‘Mi-a-ou’ with the fanfares at the end in perfect accord and ‘Le jardin de Dolly’ truly dolce, while the emergence of the solemn melody in the seconda part (from 0'41") against the most delicate high-lying arpeggios in the prima is classy indeed. Just as striking is the trickling ‘Kitty-valse’, from the pert ‘miao’ motif at the start to the sly shift into syncopation (from 1'04"). ‘Tendresse’ emerges from silence with an almost sepulchral solemnity before giving way to more animated writing, while the exuberant ‘Le pas espagnol’ offers a reminder of French composers’ obsessive interest in all things Spanish at this time.

Poulenc’s Sonata for four hands is a wonderfully tongue-in-cheek affair: who but a teenager would give such a grandiose title to a work lasting under six minutes? Though the excellent notes by Roger Nichols talk of the influence of Satie’s Socrate, what strikes me is how Stravinskian it is, both harmonically and rhythmically. Lewis and Osborne certainly relish the sheer physicality of the writing, whether in the biting acerbic drive of the Prélude or the frenetic Final, with its Petrushka-esque bitonal chords and an unexpectedly (and utterly Poulencian) bluesy close. Between them comes a ‘Rustique’, which appears unassuming yet which contains within it striking textural effects, with the hands at the extremities of the keyboard, all brought to life with simple charm. Stravinsky himself puts in an appearance later in the recital with the Three Easy Pieces, which cunningly sound more difficult than they are thanks to the combination of harder prima part and easier seconda. Lewis and Osborne enjoy the cheeky bitonal bite of the opening March, while the Petrushka-like Waltz contrasts very effectively with the obsessive mechanistic dance of the fleeting concluding Polka, which here never threatens to become aggressive.

The two Debussy works – the Six Épigraphes antiques and the far better-known Petite Suite – are as imaginative and compelling as you’d expect from Osborne, whose solo Debussy recital (much admired by Patrick Rucker in October 2017) was such a marvel of finesse and bold thinking. Happily Lewis is very much on the same wavelength and they conjure the elusive allure of the Épigraphes to perfection, whether in the quiet gravitas of ‘Pour que la nuit soit propice’ or the stillness of ‘Pour l’égyptienne’, through which gossamer fragments float before our ears. These contrast with the changeability of ‘Pour la danseuse aux crotales’, with its playful exoticisms, or the first of the set – an undulating invocation to Pan with hints of a certain flaxen-haired young lady – which is ravishingly done, as is the final piece, with its harmonic experimentation and strangely enigmatic ending. With playing on this level, it makes you regret anew that these Épigraphes don’t get out more.

With the Petite Suite we return to less elusive territory and, as in Dolly, it emerges sounding entirely fresh. There’s an irresistible combination of imagination and refined pianism, from the gentle ripples that underpin ‘En bateau’ via the playful ‘Cortège’ (enhanced by pedalling of great subtlety) and the sense of the ancient in the Menuet, which is by turns confiding, elegant and skittish; the Ballet wraps things up in joyous fashion.

In Ma Mère l’Oye we’re transported to Ravel’s world of wonder in the most miraculous way. There’s a crystalline beauty to much of Lewis and Osborne’s quiet playing and a Classicism – such as in the Pavane – that avoids the overt emoting that can mar some performances. In ‘Beauty and the Beast’ they have no need to turn the Beast’s music into a caricature but rather give it an ungainly quality that is tenderly transformed as the piece unfolds. And the gradual crescendo, replete with glissandos, at the close of ‘The Fairy Garden’ makes for a suitably heady close to an exquisite recital.

With the two pianists caught in a beautifully natural recording made in March last year, only one thing jars – the Caillebotte painting that adorns the cover, where the two oarsmen are surely making far heavier weather of their task than these two artists! This offers not only the perfect escape from our current locked-down state but also the most sublime example of peerless pianism.