The best concerts (films, plays, art exhibits) linger in the mind.  Even the ones you don’t like have value, as you mull over what displeased you.  But when they’re good, they remain in the ear and in the mind.

I heard a provocative concert this week: Canadian-born pianist Marc-André Hamelin. He’s a super virtuoso, which can be said about many pianists.  He’s a technician, which means he has absolute control of the mechanical aspects of playing.  That, too, can be said about many pianists.

Ahah, here’s something that cannot always be said: Hamelin’s an adventurer!  In terms of the music he’s played and recorded in his career, he presents gems, forgotten masterpieces, eclectic or exotic works.   He’s like an enthusiast who wants to taste everything in the gourmet section of an up-scale shop.

But the real kicker is something all too rare: he’s a pianist-composer.  Last night he ended the concert with five of his own etudes from a set he’s worked on for years.  He doesn’t call himself a composer.  A composer, he says, devotes the bulk of his or her effort to the task.  Since he’s constantly concertizing and recording, he figures he doesn’t qualify.

I beg to differ, Mr. Hamelin.  Here’s what I took away from your pieces: I heard Bach’s mind meeting Liszt’s fingers.  Especially in the etude called Prelude, a virtuosic first section followed by a massively complex, jazzy fugue.  From the first note of this piece, I knew our ears were going to be stretched ten feet on either side.   And yet, it was sweepingly lyrical, despite being filled with gymnastics and razor-sharp intellectuality.

Mr. Hamelin has been playing since he was five.  His ability to play is so ingrained he can’t explain how or what he does. “If you’re a caterpillar,” he quips, “the last thing anyone should ask you is which leg you move first.”

Isn’t that the best thing?  Doing something so well, we can’t say how we do it. Good cooks are like that.  Expert gardeners.  Hurdlers and high-jumpers. Expert training, virtuosic ability, and hard work, etched deep in the subconscious.

Sometimes when I hear a pianist in recital, I’m inspired to go home and do more of my own practicing.  I think, “Gosh, I see how that works, I should try this.”  Not this concert.  Hamelin left normal “playing the piano” far behind.   He was “sculpting sound” as if he were tossing cascades of light or swirling arabesques of sand.

Sand . . . STOP.  Hold that thought.  I want to share something amazing with you involving sand in my next post.   Stay tuned.