It was this sense of mystery, of a free spirit trapped in the net of human dominion.” Did she identify? “Not consciously. But who knows? Maybe a kind of sympathy.” Grimaud saw the wolf regularly, and started to read up on the subject, “Very much like my approach to music, what started as a passion then became a mission.”She considered setting up a wolf sanctuary, rejected that idea as merely sentimental, then hit on the project she now runs on a 16-acre estate near her home: an education centre where wolves live, and where groups of children come to study them. And as with classical music, the best way to induce conservation is to get to kids.” Grimaud mornings and even-ings at the piano, but afternoons are devoted to the wolves. She reckons they’ve saved her from a misanthropic end.Apart from her highly individual approach to the keyboard, Grimaud’s other claim to fame lies in her synaesthesia – she hears in colour. “But since I had always seen numbers as each possessing their own colour, I didn’t think much about the fact that different musical keys were similarly coloured.”So how does the pianist categorise the programme she will play at her solo Prom? “Beethoven’s Tempest Sonata is black and blue, the Corigliano piece is mostly red, and the Bach-Busoni is a framework of blue and purple.” Anyone who regards synaesthesia as an affliction should get along on Monday to her concert at the Victoria and Albert Museum, and think again. H?ne Grimaud plays Bart? Third Piano Concerto at the Royal Albert Hall on Sunday, and a solo recital on Monday (020-7589 8212; ).

Anyone concerned that Britain’s pool of musical talent may be running dry should be heartened by the success of The Coral. The Hoylake band’s debut album, released last year, easily outsold many more vaunted imports, while their place in the nation’s hearts is currently sealed by the success of their new single, the gentle “Pass It On”, which on Sunday became their first hit. The papers are full of interviews with “the Scousers who refuse to play music-biz games” (such as, er, talking to the press).They could certainly lighten up a little. The singer, James Skelly, says not a single word to the adoring audience at this low-key show, recorded for future broadcast.

Those who haven’t already downloaded the forthcoming album, Magic and Medicine, can be excused for being a little bemused, as much of the set, including the first few songs, is lifted straight from it.”In the Forest”, with a bassline borrowed from Brian Wilson and a faintly creepy tone of menace (none of them older than 22, the Coral are nearer to childhood memories than many of their admirers, after all), opens the show, as it does the new record, followed by the frantic “Bill McCai”, another observation of the local characters who inspire them. “Gypsy Market Blues”, on record a somewhat shameless tribute to Bob Dylan’s electric phase, rocks more pointedly. Bill Ryder-Jones’s lead guitar lines, excellent throughout, cut through the sound in true Beat Boom, axe-hero style, while the brilliant album-closer, “Confessions of a DDD”, sets up a good groove.Skelly, seemingly dressed for an angling trip (a nice change from the Paul Merton-style cardigan he sported for their Glastonbury spot), seems unconcerned with audience interaction. Even the brief “Pass It On” receives a peculiarly cursory treatment, as if their big hit is already something of a millstone around their necks. Proven favourites such as “Simon Diamond”, “Skeleton Key”, the single that reminded the Great British public how much they really liked Captain Beefheart, and “I Remember When” are ecstatically received, although the garage rock of “Goodbye” hardly warrants a 10-minute extended version And that’s it. There’s no encore, although the crowd are baying for “Dreaming of You”, before they give up and boo instead.

All two thousand of them.Still, the Coral’s skill can’t be overestimated. They play extraordinarily well, so adeptly that one can only be glad that there was no surfing off the Wirral coast to take up their time as they were growing up. In fact, it’s remarkable just how much their sound echoes that Sixties inspiration for legions of teenagers with guitars, The Yardbirds. That means they’re condemned to turn into Led Zeppelin, Eric sodding Clapton or grumpy art-school teachers. Don’t wait that long: catch them while they’re still on for a rave-up (smiling optional)..