The latest of Igor Levit’s thematically linked collections solidifies his reputation as a pianist of unflinching intellectual rigour and breathtaking technique. His finesse is unmistakable: in his textural and rhythmic lucidity (even the densest passages of the Bach fugue emerge clearly), in his uncanny touch (check out the exceptional colours of the hazy first fugue in Busoni’s Fantasia contrappuntistica) and in his imaginative articulation. Just as winning is his sensitivity to the idiomatic range of his chosen composers, evident in the way he gives a different sonic signature to each piece – even each section of each piece. It’s hard to believe that the pianist who introduces himself with a plush reading of the Bach-Siloti Air is the same one who gives such a granite surface to certain passages of the Liszt Sonata.

At the same time, this collection reveals the same paradox as its highly regarded predecessors. On the one hand, the varied but historically linked selections – all improvisatory to one degree or another – reflect Levit’s eagerness to explore a wide range of repertoire. But while his imagination may be restless, his playing is not: he maintains an Apollonian composure throughout.

I don’t mean that his playing is inexpressive. His slow, relentless reading of Liszt’s transcription of Schubert’s ‘Der Doppelgänger’ draws out the music’s pitiless terror to an unequalled degree; at the opposite end of the spectrum, as you listen to the way the sound melts about 10 bars into the Intermezzo of the Busoni Fantasia, you could guess it was marked ‘visionary’ (visionario) even without the score. Nor are the performances ever flat. Ready to extend a fermata or stretch a phrase, he’s keenly alert to Berg’s demands for flexibility; and as we move towards the fugue in the Liszt Sonata, time dissolves.

When you compare his patient and sometimes withdrawn Liszt Sonata to the more volatile versions by Argerich, Horowitz, Richter and Ernst Levy, however, Levit stands out for his self-possession: this is Liszt without ego. It’s not by any means easy going: there’s no lack of pain (listen as he hammers away at the grandioso theme starting at bar 363). But to my ears, there’s a vein of resignation as well: Levit bears up against his fate, whereas Levy, in particular, rages against it, ready to sacrifice the notes on the page in the interests of heightening its underlying psychic struggle. The Fantasia contrappuntistica is similarly poised: Levit centres on the music’s lofty intellectual project, without drawing out the fury that Egon Petri (6/61) finds in it. Marc-André Hamelin once knocked it as ‘so damned serious’ (1/16) – and Levit’s performance does nothing to contradict that position. In both works, there’s plenty of excitement but not much sense of risk.

Still, controversial though they may be, these are consistently enthralling performances, each with a strong point of view, conveyed with such conviction that it’s hard to resist. No lover of piano music should pass this up.