If I was to find an apt description of Fauré’s art – its craft and complexity – it would be Walter Pater’s definition of Romanticism: “the addition of strangeness to beauty”. The journey of the 13 Barcarolles from salon but always subtle beginnings through the darkness of Nos 7-10 to a final sense of reconciliation surely contradicts Fauré’s sad, self-deprecating assertion that he seemed to repeat himself.

On the credit side, Owen is the least insistent or interventionalist of pianists. He never invests the music with undue weight or significance. His performances glide gracefully, often in near strict tempo on their own momentum, quite without distortion or idiosyncrasy. But, if he could hardly be more lucid or refined, he could surely be less diffident and more giving. Time and again he leaves you to tease out Fauré’s mystery for yourself. There is too little sense of the 7th Barcarolle’s shifting crepuscular world, very much something of the night and, more generally, there is too little to seduce, entice or surprise.

The Three Songs Without Words, Fauré’s response to Mendelssohn, are less of a challenge and Owen is at his urbane best in No 3. The recordings are excellent but the accompanying notes somewhat bald. You will find a very different ardour and committment from Kathryn Stott (Hyperion, 5/95), but for the most inward and inclusive understanding of Fauré’s enigma, turn to Germaine Thyssen-Valentin’s recordings, available on Testament.