The standout moment on this album is the Ricercar del VI tuono by Annibale Padovano. Silas Wollston’s performance feels far more epic than its 5'06" length would suggest. His organ-playing is aerated but muscly, almost hypnotic in its dancing quality. From the booklet notes we learn that Padovano enjoyed a long career at San Marco, working there as organist from 1552 until 1565, when he suddenly left his post without permission. This historical detail imbues the final peroration of the Ricercar with hermeneutical mischief. There’s a sense the composer doesn’t know how to get out of its thrilling search – even with the sherbet-bright inverted tonic pedal leading the way – and so there’s the crash of a ‘blue’ note. This wrongness flings us towards the cadence we have been so desiring.

How then to prepare the way for such a fabulous performance? For one, I could do without the opening Ricercar del XII tuono by Andrea Gabrieli. It really doesn’t do much: it’s far too static a structure – even with Gawain Glenton’s expert divisions towards the movement’s close – to set the scene with any kind of tantalising energy for what is to come. The following movement, Adrian Willaert’s Jouissance vous donneray, would make a much better opener. It provides the first of a few ‘islands’ on the album that seem to link up as spaces of sonic refuge. Willaert’s A la fontaine is the next, which has a casually worn elegance to its ebb and flow. Glenton’s own diminutions are gently and lightly patted into the larger musical line. And together with Wollston’s calm, the whole thing sways like a dance made of chiffon.

Finally, I adore Girolamo Diruta’s Toccata di salto cativo del VI tuono. Particularly after the slamming strength of the previous track, Wollston’s fingerwork in the Diruta is so freshly articulated: fingers dancing unburdened by the heaviness of life, morning fresh. Lovely booklet notes cap an altogether fine album.