Marc-Andre Hamelin. Photo by Fran Kaufman.

Marc-Andre Hamelin. Photo by Nina Large.

  

When the British magazine, Classic CD, picks an artist as one of the 100 best pianists in history and no less a writer than New Yorker music critic Alex Ross waxes eloquent about his talents, it is tempting to say that said artist, French Canadian pianist and composer Marc-André Hamelin, delivered his usually wonderful performance on Tuesday night, February 2, at the Cliburn at the Bass concert series in Fort Worth and be done with it. But that would be too easy, so here goes.

The Cliburn is all about pianists, and Hamelin, 48, possesses an impeccable technique and delivers even the most challenging pieces without seeming to work at it at all. His fingers fly over the keys with a mastery that frees him to give the music his full attention. Such trifling details as delivering the flurry of notes is hardly worth a thought. Hamelin sits still, with perfect hand position, only occasionally acknowledging the music in a physical manner. Anyone who had to practice piano with quarters on their hands has to admire his hand control; those quarters are safe. Hamelin can probably play a 10-note chord and make each note sound at a different dynamic level.

For some, this laissez-faire approach to the “show” part of a performance detracts from the excitement quotient. Further detracting in the Bass Hall appearance, Hamelin wore a drab suit, rumpled shirt with no tie, and a pair of incongruously shiny patent leather shoes; no tux, no cape, no red socks. For those who came strictly for the music, none of this visual anti-flashitude mattered a whit. This is a pianist who throws his energy into the nuances of the music.

Hamelin’s approach to all of the music on the program was remarkably similar. His nuanced reading of Haydn’s Variations in F minor and Mozart’s Sonata in A minor K. 310 showed a sensitivity born of romantic sensibilities. This is not to say that he delivered a “romantic” schmerz-filled performance; he didn’t. But rubato, that romantic flexing of the tempo, abounded and the passage work was relegated to its proper position as elaboration of the melodic material. The lovely ending to all of the harmonic resolutions was a perfect decrescendo that covered only two notes. Even repeated notes had shape and, in once instance, each note of the melodic material was caressed by one finger.

Arriving at Liszt's Venezia a Napoli, the “showpiece” part was conspicuously absent, except at the very end. The spirit of the previous Mozart and Haydn pieces hovered over the performance. It wasn’t until the second movement that we finally got some really forceful playing. And it wasn’t until the fiendishly difficult Tarantella, which brings the work to a close, that Hamelin actually rose up (slightly) from the bench to land on the keys.

Given the approach to rest of the program, Debussy’s gauzy impressionism should have floated like a ghost over the piano. What a surprise that unlike the earlier selections on the program, in the four pieces from Debussy’s Preludes Book 2, Hamelin chose not to sand off the rough edges of the music. Debussy’s reputation as a revolutionary was clearly on display: sudden dynamic changes, angularity of the material, blindingly fast passage work and a tonal language in clear relief that foreshadowed all that was to follow. Hamelin's pedaling would drench the music at one moment then vanish at the end of a passage to let it resolve in crystal clarity. It was all just totally unexpected.

The program ended with a set of Hamelin's own compositions. Like all great virtuosi who write for their own performances, he's made these Five Preludes present formidable technical challenges. Stylistically, they are a mishmash. Hamelin adds a hint of bluesy boîte to the mixture of Lisztian velocity and thick chords that occasionally turned into clusters; all covered with French harmonic gravy. Many of the pieces were very fast on one level while being very slow on another; fast passage work ladled over a slow-moving foundation. Some were based on pre-existing material. After Tchaikovsky was for the left hand alone and based on his Lullaby Op. 16 No.1. A newly composed Minuetto, heavily dependant on sequences, was a substitution for the promised After Chopin. A free-flowing Coma Berenice was a tribute to Queen Berenice II of Egypt, apparently famous for her voluminous hair. The last of the set, oddly named Prelude, was the technical Mount Everest of the evening. At times, it sounded like there were at least two pianists seated at the keyboard playing with four hands. The most surprising part of this movement was the bead of sweat, making its first obvious appearance, running down Marc-André Hamelin's forehead when it was over.