กฐ No one mounted to the rooftops to shout the French are coming, the French are coming, yet somehow we have enjoyed a veritable invasion of French and French-based pianists (Aimard, Thibaudet,Angelich, Grimaud, et al.). In number they outstrip their German and Italian rivals, which is rather amazing, since French pianism has hardly been dominant on the international scene in the past (Casadesus over Kempff Hardly.) Among the most lauded of the younger generation is 31-year-old Alexandre Tharaud, whose earlier Chopin disc won raves in high places. 

I am not in a high place, so I'm free to say that he doesn't bowl me over. Tharaud is typed as an intellectual musician, and to be sure, there's more calculation in his approach than emotinal sweep. His Chopin is full of eccentric starts and stops and broken phrases, all done with taste and total lack of exaggeration. But at a certain point this kind of intelligent fussiness, if I can call it that, is crazy-making. Tharaud can't let two bars go by naturally; he micromanages literally every beat. Horowitz did the same on a grand scale. Apparently grandness is out, but the same nervous tinkering is praised on a small scale. On this whole disc, nothing sounded right to me except the Mazurkas, whose off-kilter rhythms suit Tharaud's off-kilter temperament. 

As a test case, I urge you to try the Ballade no. 1, comparing Tharaud's inward, highly personal style with the sweep of Kissin, the natural instincts of Ax, or the aristocratic power of Pollini. No doubt Tharaud has as much to say in this music as any rising pianist, but he speaks in a language too skewed for me. (Santa Fe listener on amazon.com )