Consider a pianist and a soprano — both in repertoire that may be unexpected. The pianist is Simon Trpceski, who, at the beginning of this season, took New York by storm.

The young man from Macedonia played Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto with the Philharmonic — and played the stuffing out of it. It had flair, sense, and loads of excitement. This was a virtuoso of the old school, right down to the tails and the kissing of the concertmistress’s hand.

Now Mr. Trpceski has made a recording, for EMI Classics, of extremely refined repertoire: the piano music of Debussy. And it begins with maybe Debussy’s simplest pieces: the two Arabesques. In these, Mr. Trpceski is sensitive and crystalline. He uses a judicious amount of pedal, which is crucial in the playing of French Impressionism. There is not too much blur, not too much plainness. The Arabesque No. 2 has wonderful esprit — all the gaiety it needs.

It must be said that Mr. Trpceski is now and again a bit heavy; also that his playing is not classically French. It tends to be rich, and into the keys. This is Impressionism from a Romantic, you might say. But it is satisfying and musical, whatever the case.

Mr. Trpceski goes on to the “Children’s Corner,” that beloved suite of six pieces. You remember how Horowitz loved to play the “Serenade for the Doll” for an encore? Mr. Trpceski plays it winningly, too. He is sprightly in it, rather than mysterious (as Horowitz tended to be). But, again, he is satisfying. And he renders “Golliwogg’s Cake-walk” with the appropriate parodic delight.

Mr. Trpceski plays more challenging music, technically, with “Images,” Books I and II. “Reflets dans l’eau,” in the first book, has all the subtlety we want. Every note is there — this recording is immaculate — but none is too obvious. And Mr. Trpceski is able to unroll some of his marvelous technique, using very relaxed arms to whip off difficult passages smoothly.

And you may wish to know about “Poissons d’or,” in Book II. In these hands, those goldfish flit and shimmer splendidly.

Mr. Trpceski ends with “Clair de lune” and “L’Isle joyeuse.” The first is slowish and thoughtful, with just a little fussing. I find a straighter approach to this extremely familiar and superb piece more effective. And “L’Isle joyeuse” is okay. But it doesn’t build as effectively as it should, and building is almost the whole ballgame in this genius piece.

What shines through in all these tracks is Mr. Trpceski’s love for the music — love for these canonical pieces of Debussy. He is quite right, of course. And we see that this slayer of the Tchaik Piano Concerto is a versatile musician — as any musician worthy of the name must be.

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Karita Mattila, the Finnish soprano, has gone and made a crossover album — a jazz album, called “Fever” (for Ondine). Almost 50 years ago, another soprano, Eileen Farrell, declared, “I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues.” And everyone else has that right. But that doesn’t mean that everyone does as well as everyone else.

Ms. Mattila sings Gershwin, Porter, Rodgers, Kern, Arlen — you know, the gang. She is all miked up, and sounds smoky and chesty. Not very much like a soprano, actually. (And this is no criticism.) In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to know it was Ms. Mattila. Her English has a pleasing, kind of torchy accent. And she is obviously a personable and musical lady.

Anyone who has ever seen her on a recital or opera stage has no doubt of that.

But she is very, very ill served by the arrangements here, in my judgment. They tend to be too loud, too brassy, too fast, and too weird. Also, I’m not sure — not sure at all — about the backup singers. I wouldn’t put Pips with Ms. Mattila. But these arrangements do not flatter the singer in any case.

In the title song, “Fever,” Ms. Mattila is very smoky indeed. But a touch more subtlety, and a bit of ice, would help a lot. (Yes, ice in a song called “Fever.”) A little Peggy Lee cool would go a long way. That’s what sells the song. Ms. Mattila is overheated and overwrought.

And “Nice Work If You Can Get It” is a crying shame. The verse is a joke, really — hardly recognizable as itself — and the chorus is all right (including Ms. Mattila’s imitation of an instrument). But it would be far more satisfying to hear this soprano sing Gershwin relatively straight. These are songs, after all — not necessarily in need of transformation.

Ms. Mattila ends with “Come Rain or Come Shine,” which she gives the appropriate brass and oomph. (This CD has a surfeit of brass and oomph.) And this reminds me: That is the title song of the Arlen album done by soprano Sylvia McNair and André Previn. After a dozen years, it is still available from Philips — highly recommended.