Shostakovich’s pianistic magnum opus continues to grow in stature, both musically and ethically. Each encounter reveals new facets of its artistic resourcefulness, and each provokes further reflection on the paradox of what it has to say: namely, that the purest of musical genres can make the most powerful of political statements in a context (the last years of Stalin’s reign) where Art for Art’s Sake is anathematised.

Dutchman Hannes Minnaar certainly appreciates all of this, as his booklet interview suggests. With a recent, highly regarded recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations to his name, it might be expected that he would show a keen appreciation for contrapuntal ingenuity, which is half the battle for scaling Shostakovich’s monument. The other half is insight into the variety of character that distinguishes each Prelude and Fugue from the next, and indeed each group of four from the next, since Shostakovich tends to work towards high points of elaboration and contemplation, then takes a deep breath and strikes out on a path of renewed innocence and simplicity. In this respect, too, Minnaar shows admirable insight.

Listening to this set straight through is therefore both a pleasure and a learning experience. Minnaar’s adroitness in the most virtuoso pieces is matched by his patient expressivity in the more brooding ones. He is prepared to take his time, but he does so judiciously, never for the sake of his own glory, always in sympathy with the music’s humane voice. A blow-by-blow comparison with Vladimir Ashkenazy – my qualified choice when I assessed all available recorded cycles in these pages some 20 years ago (2/02) – would have the two artists fairly evenly matched.

There is a ‘but’ coming, and a large one, which is that Igor Levit’s Sony Classical set trumps all Minnaar’s and Ashkenazy’s aces. Levit has their acuteness of characterisation and more: a wider range and a subtler palette of tone and nuance. He pushes to greater extremes – witness the headlong, denunciatory rush of his D flat major Prelude and Fugue, which sits on the cusp between near and actual chaos – and his shading of the more expressive numbers can be breathtakingly poetic without ever feeling forced or self‑conscious. By comparison, some of Minnaar’s loudest playing is unduly harsh. His instrument is less rich in colours, and the acoustic less sympathetic.

And yet, as I began by saying, each encounter, through the lens of contrasting pianistic temperaments, serves to deepen my awe at Shostakovich’s creation. I remain grateful to Hannes Minnaar for that.